TBBfliSPP 


,- 


THE  CROOKED  ELM; 


OB, 


LIFE    BY    THE    WAY-SIDE, 


•'  The  web  of  our  life  is  of  a  mingled  yarn,  good  and  ill  together ;  our  virtues 
would  be  proud  if  our  faults  whipped  them  not ;  and  our  crimes  would  despair  if 
they  were  not  cherished  by  our  virtues."  —  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


BOSTON: 

PUBLISHED    FOR    THE    AUTHOR, 

BY  WHITTEMOBE,  NILES,  AND  HALL. 

1858. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1857,  bj 

THOMAS    W.    HIOGINS, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


CAMBRIDGE: 
STEREOTYPED  UY  ALLEN  AND  FAR  Nil  AM. 


PRINTED    BY    METCALF    AND    COMPANY. 


PREFACE. 


THERE  are  many  things  in  this  world  of  ours  which 
are  disagreeable  —  many,  very  many  indeed  !  Among 
the  number  is  the  task  of  writing  a  preface  to  one's 
own  book.  What  to  say,  and  how  to  say  it,  are  per- 
plexing questions,  —  questions  which  make  the  author 
hesitate,  think,  query,  and  "calculate."  It  would  not 
be  good  policy  to  give  the  reader  a  synopsis  of  the 
book,  for  that  would  neutralize,  if  not  destroy,  all  inter- 
est in  the  story.  "What  then  shall  he  say  ?  —  Yes,  that 
is  the  important  question,  —  what  shall  he  say  ?  Sim- 
ply this :  —  He  hopes  that  the  following  pages  will 
afford  entertainment  and  instruction  to  those  who  may 
read  them, — that  while  they  illustrate  some  of  the  grow- 
ing evils  of  society,  they  will  also  have  a  healthy  moral 
influence  on  the  mind  of  the  reader,  by  inculcating 
virtue,  and  the  necessity  of  upright,  honorable  conduct 
in  all  the  relations  of  life.  If  what  he  has  written  shall 
have  this  effect,  he  is  satisfied. 

Fearing,  trusting,  hoping,  he  submits  "  The  CROOKED 

(3) 


4  PREFACE. 

ELM,  OR  LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE  "  to  the  decision  of  a 
generous  public,  believing  that  if  he  has  attained  his 
object,  his  efforts  will  receive  the  approbation  of  that 
class  of  the  reading  community  whose  approval  alone 
is  worth  seeking. 


THE     CROOKED    ELM; 


LIFE    BY   THE    WAY-SIDE. 


CHAPTER    I. 

"  PULL  the  blinds  quick,  William ;  I  fear  that  I  am 
seen." 

"  Why,  how  pale  you  look !  and  so  agitated !  What 
can  be  the  matter  with  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  she  saw,  and  has  followed  me.  If  she 
has  —  if  she  has  seen  me  get  into  this  carriage,  I  am 
ruined  forever ;  and  all  because  you  were  so  unreason- 
able as  to  insist  upon  my  meeting  you." 

"  Cornelia,  you  are  nervous  and  excited.  Compose 
yourself  —  there  is  no  danger!  Who  saw  you?  Who 
has  frightened  you  in  this  manner  ?  " 

"  O,  forgive  me,  William!"  said  she,  bursting  into 
tears ;  "  I  am  to  blame,  and  not  you.  You  are  always 
kind  and  good  to  me,  and  I  know  you  love  me ;  but  I 
am  afraid  of  that  woman.  I  know  she  means  me  harm. 
She  wishes  you  to  love  her  daughter.  I  am  sure  she 
does,  and  that  is  why  she  watches  me.  I  fear  her.  I 
met  her  just  now ;  I  am  sure  she  knew  me,  disguised  as 
1»  (5) 


6  THE   CROOKED   ELM  } 

I  am.  She  looked  earnestly  at  me,  and  her  black  eyes 
seemed  to  pierce  my  very  soul.  I  have  felt  them  upon 
me  ever  since,  although  I  dared  not  turn  my  head  to  see 
whether  she  was  following  me.  Of  late  I  have  met  her 
frequently  and  most  unexpectedly.  She  looks  at  me  as 
though  she  would  read  my  most  hidden  thoughts.  I 
fear  her,  William !  I  know  she  will  do  me  harm ! " 
This  was  said  hurriedly,  and  almost  in  one  breath. 

"  I  do  not  think  so,  Cornelia.  You  imagine  that  she 
wishes  me  to  love  her  daughter,  and  that  leads  you  to 
believe  that  she  watches  you.  If  she  even  did  wish  so 
foolish  a  thing,  why  should  that  make  her  watch  you  ? 
She  knows  nothing  of  our  intimacy ;  she  does  not  dream 
that  you  care  for  me  other  than  as  a  friend  —  a  mere 
visiting  acquaintance." 

"  You  may  think  so ;  but  I  feel  that  she  knows  more 
than  you  imagine  she  does." 

"  Be  that  as  it  may,  my  dearest  Cornelia,  let  us  think 
and  say  no  more  about  the  matter ;  for  why  should  we 
make  ourselves  unhappy  now,  when  we  have  met  to 
enjoy  each  other's  society,  and  revel  in  the  delights  of  a 
pure  love?  'T is  not  often  that  we  can  see  each  other, 
and  though,  as  you  imagine,  there  be  danger  attending 
these  secret  interviews,  that  should  make  us  prize  them 
the  more.  I  forget  all  danger  when  there  is  a  hope  of 
seeing  you,  and  a  thousand  black  eyes,  be  they  never  so 
piercing,  would  be  no  barrier  in  the  way." 
'  "  You  are  right ;  I  have  risked  every  thing  for  you, 
and  why  should  I  fear  ?  I  know  you  will  protect  me 
—  I  'feel  safe  and  happy  when  with  you.  I  am  only 
nervous  and  fearful  when  you  are- absent  from  me.  I 
will  be  so  no  longer.  I  know  you  love  me ;  and  while  I 
am  conscious  of  that,  why  need  I  care  what  the  world 
may  think  or  do  ?  No,  William,  I  will  neither  fear  her 
or  the  world  again.  I  am  so  glad  to  meet  you  —  so 


OR,   LIFE  BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  7 

happy  when  I  am  with  you!  Would  that  we  might 
never  part ! " 

Thus  spoke  Mrs.  Cornelia  Belmonte  and  William 
Hastings,  as  the  carriage  which  Mrs.  Belmonte  had  just 
entered,  hastily  and  tremblingly,  turned  away  from 
Thompson's  saloon,  and  moved  slowly  up  Broadway. 
There  was  nothing  in  the  appearance  of  the  driver,  the 
horses,  or  the  carriage,  as  they  wended  their  way  through 
this  crowded  thoroughfare  of  our  metropolis,  to  excite 
the  attention  of  any  one  who  might  see  them,  save  per- 
haps the  fact  that  the  window  curtains  were  closely 
drawn.  This  might  be  thought  a  little  unusual,  espe- 
cially as  the  weather  was  quite  warm  and  pleasant. 
But  whose  "  establishment "  was  it  ?  —  no  one  knew.  It 
might  be  a  private  "  turnout,"  or  it  might  not.  There 
seemed  to  be  a  studied  non-committal  appearance  in  the 
driver,  the  horses,  and  the  carriage.  The  driver  was 
dressed  in  a  plain  black  suit,  black  beaver  hat,  and 
white  gloves.  The  horses  were  bright  "  bays,"  and  richly 
harnessed.  The  carriage  was  costly  in  its  finish,  yet  not 
so  much  so  as  to  be  remarkable  in  this  respect.  It  was 
sufficiently  respectable  to  be  private,  and  plain  and  un- 
ostentatious enough  to  have  come  from  one  of  the  many 
excellent  livery-stables  of  New  York.  Whoever  or 
whatever  the  driver  was,  he  seemed  to  have  had  his  in- 
structions beforehand ;  for  no  sooner  had  Mrs.  Belmonte 
entered  the  carriage,  as  before  described,  and  thrown 
herself,  half  fainting,  on  to  the  richly  cushioned  seat, 
than  he  closed  the  door,  and  mounting  the  box,  drove 
away  without  a  word  or  a  sign  from  Mr.  Hastings. 

^There  was  one  who  saw  Mrs.  Belmonte  enter ;  one 
who  saw  and  marked  the  mysterious  drawing  of  the 
curtains  ;  one  who  watched  the  closely  muffled  carriage 
as  it  passed  up  Broadway ;  and,  though  she  saw  no  o»e 
in  jit  when  Mrs.  Belmonte  entered,  nor  knew  whose 


8  THE  CROOKED  ELM; 

establishment  it  was,  her  eyes  sparkled  with  rage  and 
resentment  at  what  she  did  see,  for  she  had  penetrated 
through  the  disguise  of  Mrs.  Belmonte,  and  awakened 
jealousy  had  done  the  rest. 

"  Thank  you,  Bessy,  a  thousand  thanks  for  what  you 
told  me  this  morning.  I  will  now  be  revenged !  I  will 
make  her  feel  my  power !  She  must  not  presume  to  set 
herself  up  as  a  rival  of  my  daughter ! "  Thus  thought 
the  lady  with  the  black  eyes,  as  she  walked  hastily  along 
in  the  direction  of  the  carriage.  Yes,  Mrs.  Belmonte, 
those  -black  eyes,  like  a  black  cloud,  were  following  and 
threatening  you;  while,  secluded  from  her  gaze  and 
that  of  the  world,  you  were  lulling  yourself  into  a  fan- 
cied security.  Did  those  eyes  also  see  him,  by  whose 
side  you  were  so  happily  reposing,  and  in  whose  pres- 
ence you  were  so  quickly  forgetting  every  fear,  and 
dreaming  only  of  sunshine  and  flowers  ? 

It  is  now  necessary  to  go  back  a  little  way  in  this 
story,  in  order  that  the  reader  may  more  fully  under- 
stand the  previous  conversation.  A  few  weeks  prior  to 
the  incidents  already  mentioned,  William  Hastings  was 
quietly  seated  in  a  large  and  elegantly  furnished  room, 
in  one  of  the  many  brown  stone  houses  that  adorn  the 
upper  part  of  the  city  of  New  York.  It  was  about  ten 
o'clock  at  night.  The  whole  appearance  of  the  room 
was  that  of  taste  and  refinement.  Rich  lace  curtains 
fell  in  folds  from  the  windows,  and  rested  upon  the  vel- 
vet carpet  that  covered  the  floor.  The  furniture  in  the 
room  was  of  the  richest  rosewood.  In  one  corner  there 
was  a  wardrobe,  with  a  full  length  mirror  door ;  in  the 
opposite  corner,  and  on  the  same  side  of  the  room, 
stood  a  beautifully  carved  book-case  and  secretary. 
The  book-case  was  filled  with  choice  and  elegantly 
bound  books.  A  bureau  with  an  oval  mirror  stood  in 
one  of  the  opposite  corners,  and  an  etegdre  covered  with 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE. 

shells  and  minerals  in  the  other.  A  large  mirror  rested 
upon  the  white  marble  mantel,  and  in  the  centre  of  the 
room  stood  a  marble-topped  table,  on  which  lay  a  copy 
of  Shakspeare,  a  bible,  and  a  newspaper;  the  last  of 
which  Mr.  Hastings  had  just  finished  reading.  A  sofa, 
lounge,  ottoman,  easy-chairs,  arm-chairs,  and  other 
chairs,  ah1  cushioned  and  covered  with  rich  material, 
completed  the  furniture  of  the  room.  It  was  lit  up,  at 
the  time  I  have  mentioned,  by  two  of  four  burners 
attachecf  to  a  large  chandelier,  which  hung  suspended 
from  the  centre  of  the  ceiling,  and  which  was  presided 
over  by  little  inwrought  cupids.  Here,  as  I  have  already 
said,  sat  William  Hastings,  with  careless  ease,  and  a 
seeming  indifference  to  every  thing  about  him. 

All  was  quiet  and  still ;  and,  as  he  lounged  languidly 
back  in  his  easy-chair,  he  seemed  to  fall  into  communion 
with  his  own  thoughts.  Let  us  leave  him  to  his  reflec- 
tions for  a  moment,  while  we  learn  more  concerning  him. 
William  Hastings  was  a  lawyer,  about  twenty-eight 
years  old ;  tall,  straight,  and,  if  not  handsome,  was  con- 
sidered very  good  looking.  He  was  six  feet  high,  had  dark 
brown  hair,  which  was  rather  long,  and  slightly  inclined 
to  curl.  His  eyes  were  hazel,  and  had  an  expression  of 
melancholy,  except  when  he  was  excited,  and  then  they 
seemed  to  speak  the  burning  thoughts  within.  His  beard 
was  left  to  grow  unshaved,  and  on  his  upper  lip  he 
wore  a  moustache  of  hair,  so  soft  and  fine  that  it  never 
required  cutting,  (a  proof,  as  Eugene  Sue  would  say, 
when  taken  in  connection  with  his  small  feet  and  small 
white  hands,  of  aristocratic  birth).  His  features  were 
regular,  and  his  well-developed  forehead  indicated  a 
mind  accustomed  to  thought  and  reflection.  When  he 
smiled,  he  showed  a  handsome  set  of  teeth  of  the 
purest  whiteness ;  and  there  was  in  his  smile  a  fascina- 
tion and  a  charm  which  drew  one  instinctively  to  him, 


10  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

and  made  him  a  favorite  with  the  opposite  sex.  Add 
to  these  the  fact  that  he  always  dressed  with  neatness 
and  taste,  and  you  have  the  outlines  of  William  Has- 
tings, as  he  lounged  carelessly  but  thoughtfully  in  his 
room  as  above  described.  He  had  remained  in  this 
meditative  mood  about  an  hour,  when  tie  heard  a  gen- 
tle knock  at  his  door,  and  without  turning  his  head  or 
changing  his  position  he  said,  "come  in."  The  door 
opened,  and  a  lady  entered  the  room.  She  was  a  little 
above  the  medium  height,  and  seemingly  about  thirty- 
two  or  three  years  old.  Her  hair  and  eyes  were  black, 
her  complexion  a  dark  brunette,  and  her  features  be- 
spoke Spanish  origin.  She  was  elegantly  but  not 
gaudily  dressed,  and  there  was  a  studied  neatness  in 
her  appearance,  and  an  ease  and  grace  in  her  manners, 
which  at  once  indicated  that  she  was  a  lady  of  refine- 
ment and  cultivation.  Advancing  two  or  three  steps 
into  the  room,  with  eyes  flashing  fire  and  with  a  coun- 
tenance of  displeasure,  she  said  to  Mr.  Hastings,  who 
still  remained  sitting,  and  who  had  not  as  yet  looked  up 
to  see  his  visitor, — 

"  I  should  think  you  might  at  least  look  at  me  when 
I  come  in."     He,  without  moving,  except  to  yawn  and 
stretch  himself  out  a  little,  and  seeming  not  to  under- 
stand what  she  was  saying,  answered  — 
"  Were  you  addressing  me,  Mrs.  Delacy  ?  " 
"  William,  you  are  most  provoking ;  you  do  not  care 
how  unhappy  you  make  me."    Hastings,  with  imperturb- 
able coolness,  replied  — 

"  Is  there  any  thing  that  I  can  do  for  you  ?  " 
"  You  did  not  think  it  worth  your  while,"  continued 
Mrs.  Delacy,  "  to  dine  with  us  to-day,  and  all  because  I 
had  company,  and  particularly  wished  you  to  be  here. 
You  might  have  told  me  that  you  could  not  be  here 
when  I  invited  you." 


OR,   LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  11 

"  Your  company  must  have  been  very  entertaining," 
replied  he,  "  to  have  put  you  into  so  amiable  a  state  of 
mind.  I  am  glad  to  know  that  you  have  enjoyed  their 
society." 

"Little  do  you  care  whether  I  have  enjoyed  their 
society  or  not !  You  know,  William,  that  you  torment 
me  purposely.  That  is  why  you  remained  away  to- 
day." 

"  I  think,  Mrs.  Delacy,  that  you  are  .exceedingly 
amiable  to-night." 

"  You  think  nothing  of  the  kind,"  answered  she, 
'tartly. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Hasting,  coolly,  "  that  you  doubt 
my  veracity ;  but  since  such  is  the  fact,  I  fear  that  any 
apologies  which  I  might  otherwise  be  inclined  to  make 
for  depriving  myself  the  pleasure  of  dining  with  you  to- 
day wquld  be  useless." 

"  You  never  made  an  apology  in  your  life !  nor  had 
you  any  thought  of  doing  so  to-night ! " 

"  Please  excuse  me,  Mrs.  Delacy ;  but  when  you  came 
in  I  was  following  a  train  of  thought  wlu'ch  I  fear  I 
shall  lose,  if  we  continue  our  agreeable  conversation." 

"  Yes,  I  dare  say  you  were  thinking  of  her  with 
whom  you  doubtless  have  had  the  pleasure  of  dining  to- 
day." 

"  You  flatter  me  exceedingly,"  said  Hastings ;  "  and 
really,  if  I  knew  to  whom  you  refer,  I  should  have  to 
thank  you  for  the  compliment  which  you  have  so 
courteously  bestowed  upon  my  generous  feelings." 

"^You  know  very  well  to  whom  I  refer !  if  not,  ask 
your  conscience ;  that  will  tell  you  !  " 

"  I  fear  you  are  mistaken  in  that,"  said  Hastings ;  "  for 
I  assure  you  that  my  conscience  has  not  been  in  a  com- 
municative mood  for  some  time  past." 

"  William,   you  will   drive  me  mad  with  your  silly 


12  TEE   CROOKED   ELM; 

nonsense,  and  your  unkind  treatment!  You  do  not 
think  me  worth  your  sensible  conversation  of  late !  All 
your  attention  and  time  are  bestowed  upon  Mrs.  Bel- 
monte !  You  tr^eat  me  cruelly,  so  you  do !  and  I  cannot 
endure  it  longer ! "  As  Mrs.  Delacy  said  this  she  burst 
into  tears,  and  left  the  place  where  she  had  been  stand- 
ing, and  seated  herself  in  an  arm-chair  behind  Hastings. 
She  hid  her  face  in  her  handkerchief,  and  remained 
silent  for  some  minutes,  then  rising  and  advancing 
towards  him,  she  said  — 

"  Forgive  me,  William,  for  what  I  have  said ;  I  do 
not  wish  to  offend  you.  I  am  sorry  that  I  have  annoyed 
you  by  talking  as  I  hav<*"  She  waited  a  moment,  as 
if  expecting  an  answer ;  but  receiving  none,  she 
added  — 

"  Will  you  forgive  me,  William  ?  I  am  very  wretch- 
ed ! "  Hastings  remained  silent,  and  without  seeming 
to  hear  what  she  said.  "  William,"  continued  Mrs. 
Delacy,  "  I  came  up  to  invite  you  down  to  an  oyster 
supper  with  us ;  but  you  treated  me  so  coldly  that  I  was 
betrayed  into  saying  what  I  have,  and  for  which  I  am 
very  sorry.  Will  you  come  down?  Mrs.  Coleman 
and  her  two  daughters  are  here ;  they  will  think  it  very 
strange  if  you  do  not."  When  she  had  finished  and 
stood  waiting  for  an  answer,  Mr.  Hastings,  without 
moving  his  head,  and  with  his  back  still  towards  her, 
said,  — 

"  Pray,  Mrs.  Delacy,  do  not  let  me  deprive  you  longer 
of  their  agreeable  company.  I  enjoyed  my  dinner  so 
much  to-day  that  I  have  not  the  slightest  inclination  to 
taste  your  oysters,  although  savored,  as  I  know  they 
would  be,  by  your  and  their,  always  to  me,  pleasant 
society."  With  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  Mrs. 
Delacy  left  the  room  ;  and  with  his  previous  indiffer- 
ence, William  Hastings  settled  down  again  into  Ins 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  13 

thoughtful  and  meditative  mood.  The  mention  of  Mrs. 
Belmonte's  name  by  Mrs.  Delacy  was  evidently  un- 
pleasant to  him,  although  his  countenance,  so  accus- 
tomed to  control,  remained  unchanged  while  she  con- 
tinued in  the  room.  As  soon  as  she  had  left,  however, 
he  began  to  ponder  over  what  she  had  said,  and,  like 
most  persons  who  are  not  easily  betrayed  into  any  sud- 
den emotion,  reflection  and  thought  produced  upon  his 
mind  an  uneasiness  more  uncomfortable  and  intense 
than  any  sudden  surprise  could  have  done.  He  had 
purposely  treated  Mrs.  Delacy  coolly,  to  draw  from  her 
if  possible  what  he  already  half  suspected  that  she 
knew.  The  plan  was  successful  Mrs.  Delacy's  jeal- 
ousy and  anger  had  betrayed  her  into  saying  what  she 
at  once  regretted  having  said.  That  night  Hastings 
found  himself  frequently  repeating  the  following  sug- 
gestive words :  "  All  your  attention  and  time  are  be- 
stowed upon  Mrs.  Belmonte."  «  Yes,  I  dare  say  you 
were  thinking  of  her  with  whom  you  have  doubtless 
had  the  pleasure  of  dining  to-day."  He  sat  until  long 
after  midnight,  swallowed  up  in  reflections  growing  out 
of  these  two  sentences.  "  Yes,  I  believe  it,"  he  would 
sometimes  say  energetically,  as  he  continued  sitting 
there ;  "  I  am  sure  she  has  watched  us,  else  why  should 
she  be  so  furiously  jealous  of  her  ? "  He  had  dined 
with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Belmonte  that  day  at  six  o'clock,  but 
he  had  told  the  fact  to  no  one.  "  How,"  thought  he, 
"  should  Mrs.  Delacy  know  that  I  have  dined  there  to- 
day ?  "  He  did  not  care  whether  she  knew  it  or  not, 
but  the  thought  that  troubled  him  was,  how  she  had  ob- 
tained the  information.  That  morning  Mr.  Hastings 
had  addressed  the  following  note  to  Mrs.  Belmonte, 
which  will  show,  somewhat,  the  intimacy  which  existed 
between  himself  and  her :  — 
2 


14  THE   CROOKED   ELM. 

"  DEAR  MRS.  BELMONTE  :  —  The  Colemans  are  to  dine 

with  Mrs.  D to-day,  and   spend    the   evening.     1 

have  been  specially  invited  to  eaten  with  them.  I  will 
not  break  my  engagement  with  you,  however,  but  will 
call  as  promised,  to-night.  You  will  please  have  the 
chessmen  ready ;  and  also  a  spare  seat  at  your  dinner 
table,  as  it  is  more  than  probable  that  I  may  drop  un- 
expectedly in  upon  you  about  six  o'clock  With  this 
declaration  of  intentions, 

I  remain  sincerely,  W.  H." 

As  William  Hastings  reflected  upon  what  Mrs.  De* 
lacy  had  said,  he  became  convinced  that  she  knew  more 
of  the  intimacy  existing  between  himself  and  Mrs.  Bel- 
monte  than  was  agreeable  to  him,  and  more  than  he 
had  supposed  any  one,  except  himself  and  Mrs.  Bel- 
monte,  could  have  known.  "  This  must  be  looked  to,'3 
said  he,  as  he  rose  to  retire.  "  I  will  suffer  no  one  to  be 
a  spy  upon  my  actions.  No,  Cornelia,  for  thy  sake  I 
will  be  more  cautious  in  future."  Thinking  thus,  he 
went  to  his  bed ;  but  his  disturbed  and  troubled  thoughts 
kept  him  a  long  time  awake.  At  length,  when  he  had 
fallen  into  a  dreamy  and  uneasy  sleep,  he  thought  he 
saw  Mrs.  Belmonte  walking  carelessly  and  unconcerned 
upon  the  edge  of  a  high  precipice.  Near  by  her,  and 
concealed  from  her  view,  he  saw  Mrs.  Delacy  stealing 
upon  her,  with  the  intention  of  throwing  her  from  its 
summit;  while  he,  unable  to  move  or  speak,  could  not 
rescue  her.  This,  and  such  as  this,  were  William  Has- 
tings's  dreams  that  night.  For,  reader,  strange  as  it  may 
seem, — incredible  as  it  may  appear,  —  he  who  had 
sounded  all  the  depths  and  shoals  of  society,  and  had 
for  a  long  time  proved  inflexible  and  deaf  to  the  prompt- 
ings of  his  tender  tendencies,  was  now,  at  the  age  of 
twenty-eight,  hopelessly  in  love,  and  that,  too,  with  a 
married  lady. 


CHAPTER    II. 


HEADER,  it  is  necessary  that  we  should  go  back  again 
in  this  story  a  little  more  than  one  year.  It  was  a 
gloomy,  disagreeable  day  in  the  early  part  of  spring.  A 
drizzly  rain  had  been  falh'ng  for  the  last  twenty-four 
hours,  and  stm  continued  its  monotonous  pattering  on 
the  muddy  streets  and  slippery  side-walks  of  Gotham. 
William  Hastings  was  sitting  in  his  office.  It  was  as 
pleasant  an  office  as  lawyers  usually  have.  I  doubt 
very  much,  however,  the  propriety  of  using  the  word 
pleasant,  as  a  qualifying  adjective,  in  describing  any  of 
these  legal  dispensaries.  His  looked  out  on  Broad- 
way, and  was  in  the  second  story  of  one  of  the  many 
large  buildings  fronting  on  this  crowded  street.  Beside 
him,  on  a  table,  lay  several  large  bundles  of  papers  tied 
together  with  red  tape.  On  the  same  table  and  on  the 
desk  before  him  were  numerous  Law  Reports,  lying 
scattered  about  in  beautiful  confusion.  He  had  just 
finished  consulting  one  of  them,  and,  throwing  it  aside, 
had  placed  his  feet  on  the  table  beside  these  volumes 
of  bound  up  wisdom.  Whether  this  irreverent  act  was 
intended  as  an  expression  of  his  contempt  for  them,  or 
whether  it  enabled  him  the  better  to  digest  their  gnarly 
contents,  is  a  question  which  I  will  leave  wholly  un- 
settled. It  is  but  proper,  however,  to  state  for  the  ben- 
efit of  the  general  reader,  that  it  is  a  custom  indulged 

(15) 


16  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

in  frequently  by  lawyers ;  and  as  it  is  neither  orna- 
mental, nor  one  of  the  attitudes  approved  of  by  any 
writer  on  office  etiquette  whom  I  have  read,  it  is  but 
simple  justice  to  this  highly  respectable  body  of  men  to 
believe,  that  the  elevation  of  one's  lower  extremities  to  a 
horizontal  plane  with  the  head,  assists  one  in  solving' 
difficult  problems,  especially  if  they  be  legal  ones.  Be 
this  as  it  may,  William  Hastings  placed  his  feet  on  the 
table,  and  turned  his  eyes  to  the  noisy  and  clattering 
street  below.  Had  he  been  less  thoughtful,  what  he 
saw  might  have  interested  him ;  but  as  it  was,  his  eyes 
only  were  upon  the  street,  —  his  mind  was  contemplat- 
ing a  different  subject.  It  continued  to  rain,  rain,  rain. 
A  smoky  and  murky  atmosphere  pervaded  the  whole 
city.  The  lower  part  of  Broadway  was  filled  with 
vehicles  of  all  descriptions,  jammed  together  in  such 
confusion  as  to  render  the  street  almost  impassable. 
Omnibus  wheels  were  interlocked  with  cart-wheels, 
while  the  drivers  of  each  sat  soaked  to  the  skin  with 
rain,  exchanging  with  each  other  the  most  approved 
oaths  of  their  respective  hostelries.  Horses  were  wet 
and  reeking;  men  with  umbrellas  hoisted,  thronged 
the  side- walks,  and  jostled  each  other  from  side  to  side 
as  they  passed.  Apple-women  with  bare  red  feet,  and 
with  bedraggled  and  muddy  skirts,  stood  on  the  corners 
of  the  streets  shivering  with  cold.  Fat  men  with  drip- 
ping umbrellas  were  standing  in  the  rain,  watching  for 
an  omnibus.  Occasionally,  when  one  of  these  city  con- 
veniencies  made  its  appearance,  labelled  for  that  part  of 
the  city  where  they  seemed  desirous  of  going,  two  or 
three  of  these  fat  individuals  aforesaid  would  make  a 
dash  for  it ;  but,  after  having  lowered  their  umbrellas 
and  opened  the  door,  they  were  met  with  that  ominous, 
perhaps  I  might  with  propriety  say,  omnibus  word, "  full." 
Full  having  been  sounded  and  echoed  by  a  dozen  or 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  17 

more  voices  within,  the  said  fat  gentlemen  would  turn 
away,  and  at  the  risk  of  being  run  into  by  several  quad- 
rupeds and  vehicles  would  regain  their  stand  on  the 
side-walk,  hoist  their  umbrellas,  which  continually 
dripped  upon  their  protuberant  sides,  and  philosoph- 
ically look  out  for  another  omnibus.  While  William 
Hastings  sat  looking  out  upon  this  monotonous  and 
moving  diorama  of  quadrupeds,  vehicles,  and  people,  a 
boy  stepped  into  his  office  from  an  adjoining  room,  and 
said  — 

"  I  have  finished  copying  the  answer  to  the  complaint, 
in  the  case  of '  Wilful  vs.  Obstinate.'  " 

"  Very  well,  Rolin,"  said  he  ;  then  taking  out  his 
watch  he  added,  "  it  is  three  o'clock ;  you  may  have  the 
rest  of  the  day  to  yourself." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Rolin,  as  he  turned  away, 
took  his  hat,  and  left  the  office.  As  soon  as  he  had 
gone,  Hastings  muttered :  "  Yes,  it  is  better  that  we 
should  be  alone.  It  is  not  safe  to  have  any  one  in  the 
office  when  he  comes.  He  is  to  be  here  at  half  past 
three  o'clock.  I  wish  I  had  never  undertaken  this 
business  — there  is  no  retreat  now,  however.  I  will  go 
on  —  I  will  save  the  child,  if  possible ! "  Having  said 
this  in  a  low,  suppressed  voice,  he  turned  his  eyes 
again  upon  the  street,  and  settled  down  into  a  gloom 
as  profound  as  that  caused  by  the  rain  and  fog  without. 
He  remained  in  this  position  for  more  than  an  hour, 
when  in  walked  a  tall  man,  seemingly  about  thirty-five 
years  old.  His  hair  was  raven  black,  and  hung  in  wavy 
curls  half  way  down  his  neck.  His  eyes,  too,  were 
black  and  full,  but  not  large.  He  had  regular  features, 
and,  save  a  certain  sinister  expression,  his  face  was  what 
would  be  called  handsome.  Indeed,  it  had  been  his 
good  or  bad  fortune  to  be  called  so  for  several  years 
2* 


18  THE   CROOKED    ELM  ; 

past  by  those  who  are  by  the  laws  of  society  consti- 
tuted judges  in  these  matters  —  I  mean,  of  course,  the 
ladies.  He  was  dressed  with  scrupulous  exactness 
and  precision ;  perhaps  too  much  so  for  this  practical 
and  republican  age.  Yet,  there  was  such  taste  displayed 
in  each  article  he  wore,  and  such  an  absence  of  what  is 
commonly  denominated  flashiness  in  his  appearance,  that 
it  would  be  difficult  to  say  in  what  particular  he  was 
overdressed.  Walking  familiarly  up  to  Mr.  Hastings, 
and  slapping  him  on  the  shoulder,  he  said  — 

"  Ah !  Hastings,  my  good  fellow,  how  do  you  do  ? 
you  look  as  melancholy  as  winter,  sitting  here  alone 
among  these  musty  law-books."  To  which  Hastings 
said,  smiling  slightly,  and  extending  his  hand  to  him 
carelessly  at  the  same  time  — 

"  You  flatter  me,  Belmonte,  and  I  am  sure  these 
books  would  acknowledge  the  compliment  you  have 
paid  them,  if  they  only  had  the  power  of  speech."  Then 
looking  at  his  watch  he  added,  — 

"  But  you  are  late  —  it  is  past  four  o'clock." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Belmonte,  "  this  deuced  rain  has  de- 
tained me." 

"  But  you  look  as  dry  as  the  books  you  condescended 
to  compliment  just  now,"  said  Hastings. 

"  Do  I  ?  look  at  that,"  said  Belmonte,  as  he  placed 
his  highly  polished  boot  in  a  chair  to  show  how  it  had 
been  splashed  with  mud  and  water. 

«Is  that  all?"  replied  Hastings  "That  needn't 
trouble  you,  for  the  men  will  care  nothing  about  it  ; 
and,  as  for  the  ladies,  they  never  look  at  your  feet  when 
they  have  your  face  to  contemplate,  covered  with  that 
black  beard  and  that  irresistible  moustache.  But  I 
don't  understand  how  the  mud  on  your  boot  should 
make  you  so  long  behind  your  time.  Did  you  walk 
down  ?  " 


OB,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  -19 

"  Not  I.  My  carriage  is  at  the  door.  I  could  not 
walk  through  this  rain,  —  and  as  for  riding  in  an  omni- 
bus —  whew !  I  had  rather  go  to  Quaker  meeting 
any  day.  Fancy  yourself,  my  dear  fellow,  snugly  seated 
in  one  of  these  comfortable  conveniences,  such  a  day  as 
this,  with  an  apple-woman  in  her  dripping  rags  on  one 
side,  fat  John  on  the  other,  soaked  to  the  skin  with 
rain,  two  or  three  market  baskets  on  your  toes,  and 
the  nursery  maid  on  your  lap.  Isn't  that  a  situation  to 
be  envied?  You  must  imagine  in  addition,  that  the 
windows  of  the  vehicle  are  all  closed.  Then  the  sa- 
vory atmosphere  —  the  Lord  save  us  !  That  vapory, 
aqueous,  liquidous,  nauseous  atmosphere !  I  think  I 
smell  it  now !  What  a  place  it  is  for  regaling  one's 
olfactory  senses !  Oh  no,  you  will  please  excuse  me ! 
So,  as  I  said,  I  came  in  my  carriage ;  and  it  was  in  get- 
ting out  that  I  treated  myself  to  this  new  coat  of  black- 
ing. And  would  you  believe  it  ?  I  have  been  at  least 
half  an  hour  coming  from  Barnum's !  It  is  a  perfect 
jam  from  here  to  the  Park.  It  is  worth  one's  life  to 
attempt  a  passage  through.  Broadway  should  be  re- 
ported to  the  proper  authorities  as  a  nuisance ;  that  is 
my  opinion." 

"  I  declare,  Belmonte,  you  are  quite  eloquent  on  the 
subject  of  omnibuses.  But,  without  imagining  myself,  as 
you  request,  in  the  lap  of  an  apple-woman,  I  will  give 
it  as  my  humble  opinion,  that  we  are  not  making  up 
for  lost  time  that  should  have  been  devoted  to  busi- 
ness." 

"_You  are  right,"  said  Belmonte;  "we  are  losing 
time.  Has  the  matter  progressed  any  since  I  was 
here?" 

"  I  have  received  another  letter,"  answered  Hastings, 
getting  up  at  the  same  time  and  locking  the  door  that 
opened  into  the  hall.  He  then  unlocked  his  safe,  and 


20  THE    CROOKED  ELMJ 

took  from  an  inner  iron  box  a  bundle  of  papers,  and  re- 
turned to  his  seat  at  the  desk. 

"  It  is  as  well,"  said  he,  as  he  seated  himself,  "  that 
we  should  be  undisturbed  by  intruders  while  engaged  in 
this  agreeable  business."  A  perceptible  smile  of  irony 
accompanied  these  words,  but  Belmonte  heeding  it  not, 
drew  his  chair  close  up  to  Hastings,  and  the  two  were 
soon  engaged  in  examining  the  papers  before  them. 
Hastings  drew  from  the  bundle  a  letter,  and  read  as 
follows :  — 

"  NEW  YORK,  April  — ,  18—. 

"  DEAR  SIR  :  —  I  have  your  last  letter  before  me.  The 
proposition  which  it  contains  I  accept.  The  money 
must  be  paid  me  as  soon  as  the  work  is  accomplished. 
When  I  receive  it,  I  will  do  as  you  suggest.  The  plans 
must  all  be  arranged,  so  as  to  prevent  detection  or  fail- 
ure. The  receipt  of  some  portion  of  the  money  in 
advance  satisfies  me  that  you  are  in  earnest.  I  re- 
turn your  letter  through  the  general  post-office  as  re- 
quested. Yours,  etc., 

MICHAEL  MERLE." 

"  D.  D.  DURLOCK,  Esq." 

"  P.  S.  I  shall  be  out  of  town  to-morrow,  but  a  letter 
directed  to  me,  with  the  usual  address,  will  be  received 
the  day  after." 

"The  stupid  fool,"  said  Belmonte,  "why  can't  he 
remain  in  town  until  the  business  is  settled  ?  But  he 
seems  to  be  a  very  sensible  fellow,  —  his  letter  smacks 
of  honesty." 

"  It  shows  him  to  be  as  unscrupulous  as  we  are," 
answered  Hastings  sarcastically. 

"  You  are  in  a  bad  humor  to-day,  Hastings,  —  I  fear 
I  have  offended  you." 


OR,   LIFE   BY  THE  WAY-SIDE  21 

"  This  business  offends  me.  I  am  heartily  tired  of  it. 
I  wish  I  never  had  undertaken  it." 

"  It  will  soon  be  off  our  hands  now,"  said  Belmonte. 
"  You  have  arranged  it  admirably.  I  never  dreamed 
that  you  would  manage  the  matter  so  well.  Have  you 
set  any  time  for  its  final  accomplishment  ?  " 

"  No,  I  think  we  must  see  Merle ;  there  is  that  to  be 
said  which  cannot  safely  be  intrusted  to  paper." 

"  But  that  will  not  be  safe,"  said  Belmonte.  "  He 
must  never  know  who  employs  him." 

"  He  must  be  seen,"  said  Hastings.  "  I  have  never 
given  him  any  thing  more  than  a  general  outline  of  the 
business  which  he  is  employed  to  do.  It  is  not  safe  to 
write  down  the  details  in  full.  He  can  be  trusted,  I 
think,  but  the  post-office  cannot,  in  matters  of  this 
importance.  He  must  be  seen  —  you  must  meet  him." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  place  myself  in  the  power  of  any 
man.  I  cannot  meet  him,"  said  Belmonte. 

"  Very  well ;  the  matter  ends  at  once  then,"  replied 
Hastings,  coolly,  as  he  commenced  replacing  the  papers. 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  place  myself  in  the  power  of 
this  cutthroat  thief  ?  "  asked  Belmonte  passionately. 

"  Not  at  all ;  I  had  much  rather  you  would  abandon 
a  business  requiring  such  a  sacrifice  of  your  respecta- 
bility. I  am  glad  that  we  cannot  go  on  with  it." 

"  But  it  must  be  accomplished,"  said  Belmonte  ener- 
getically. 

"  I  suppose  you  would  like  to  have  me  meet  your  ac- 
complice," said  Hastings,  with  eyes  flashing  with  indig- 
nation. "  I  have  no  ambition  to  do  any  thing  of  the 
kind.  I  leave  you  to  choose  some  one  else  as  your 
adviser."  As  he  said  this,  he  got  up  and  replaced  the 
papers  in  his  safe. 

When  Belmonte  saw  that  Hastings  would  not  be 
controlled,  he  said  — 


22  THE    CKOOKED    ELM; 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  offend  you  ;  I  am  perfectly  satis- 
fied with  what  you  have  done ;  but  cannot  the  matter 
be  arranged  without  my  meeting  him?  If  not — if 
there  is  no  alternative  —  why,  I  must  undergo  the 
ordeal." 

Hastings,  fearing  that  he  had  expressed  too  great  re- 
pugnance for  the  business  they  were  engaged  in,  said : 
"  I  do  not  think  there  will  be  any  danger  in  your  seeing 
Merle.  I  should  not  be  afraid  to  meet  him  at  any  place 
within  the  city.  I  will  not  see  him,  however, — the 
business  is  yours." 

"I  will  meet  him.  That  matter  is  settled,"  said 
Belmonte,  "  so  let  us  quarrel  no  more  about  it." 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Hastings,  familiarly  laying  his 
hand  on  Belmonte's  knee,  "  if  I  have  expressed  myself 
too  warmly.  I  feel  as  much  as  you  the  necessity  of 
carrying  this  enterprise  through  safely.  If  it  were  neces- 
sary for  me  to  meet  Merle,  I  would  not  hesitate  a  mo- 
ment ;  but  it  is  not  —  it  is  not  even  safe  for  me  to  do  so. 
You,  he  has  not  seen;  and  you  can  easily  disguise 
yourself,  so  that  he  would  never  recognize  you,  should 
he  meet  you  hereafter.  He  knows  me  —  my  voice  is 
familiar  to  him ;  for  it  was  once  used  in  defending  him 
on  a  criminal  indictment." 

"  Then  you  are  right  in  what  you  have  advised,"  said 
Belmonte.  "  I  might  have  known  that  you  had  a  good 
reason  to  back  all  your  suggestions ;  for  when  did  Wil- 
liam Hastings,  Esq.,  the  promising  and  talented  young 
lawyer,  act  without  some  good  reason  to  sustain  him  ?  " 

"  None  oT  your  nonsense,  Belmonte,"  answered  Hast- 
ings, "  I  am  too  old  to  be  the  subject  of  your  flattery." 

"  When  must  I  see  Merle  ? "  asked  Belmonte. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  Hastings,  —  "  to-day  is  Thursday. 
Call  here  one  week  from  to-day  at  three  o'clock,  and  I 
will  have  the  meeting  arranged  with  him." 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  23 

"  I  will  do  so,"  said  Belmonte ;  and  the  two  separated. 

Belmonte  called  on  the  next  Thursday  as  promised, 
but  no  meeting  had  been  appointed.  Several  weeks 
passed  without  any  definite  arrangement  being  made  for 
a  personal  interview  between  Belmonte  and  Merle. 

It  was  about  the  middle  of  May.  Belmonte  had 
driven  down  to  see  Hastings  again.  The  two  were 
seated  together,  and  in  earnest  conversation. 

"  Here  is  a  paper,"  said  Hastings,  "  containing  a  pro- 
gramme of  operations,  which  I  think  you  will  do  well 
to  follow.  You  must  not  part  with  Merle  until  all  is 
accomplished ;  but,  Belmonte,  if  the  child  is  injured,  I 
will  hold  you  accountable  for  it ;  nor  will  I  even  spare 
myself  in  the  event." 

"  Every  thing  shall  be  done  as  you  wish,"  replied  Bel- 
monte. He  then  opened  and  r,ead  the  paper  which 
Hastings  had  given  him.  "  It  shall  be  done,"  said  he, 
when  he  had  finished  it.  "  I  am  the  legitimate  heir  to 
the  property,  and  I  need  it  too  much  to  be  cheated  out 
of  it  by  any  one.  I  am  resolved !  "  As  he  said  this,  he 
took  a  large  pocket-book  from  an  inside  pocket,  and 
placed  the  paper  carefully  in  it. 

"  I  will  write  to  Merle,  and  tell  him  when  and  where 
to  meet  you,"  said  Hastings. 

"  I  will  be  at  the  place  agreed  upon,"  said  Belmonte ; 
then,  looking  at  his  watch,~he  continued  :  "  It  is  growing 
late  —  let  us  go  down  to  Delmonico's  and  forget  this 
business  over  a  bottle  of  champagne."  Hastings  ac- 
cepted the  invitation ;  and  they  soon  were  discussing  a 
dinner  of"  turtle  soup,  shad,  ducks,  champagne,  etc., 
with  countenances  as  cheerful  as  Wall  street  brokers. 

"  By  the  way,  Hastings,"  said  Belmonte,  as  they  sat 
at  the  table,  "  I  never  yet  have  had  the  pleasure  of  intro- 
ducing you  to  Mrs.  Belmonte.  A  few  friends  of  ours 
are  to  dine  with  us  on  Saturday  and  spend  the  evening, 


24  THE   CKOOKED    ELM  J 

and  we  shall  be  happy  if  you  will  consent  to  be  one  of 
the  number.  Miss  Leighton  is  to  be  there,  —  the  world 
pronounces  her  beautiful ;  and,  unless  you  are  confirmed 
and  properly  barricaded  in  your  bachelor  proclivities,  she 
will  storm  your  fortress,  and  compel  you  to  capitulate. 
We  dine  at  half  past  five." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Hastings ;  "  I  accept  your  polite 
invitation  with  pleasure,  notwithstanding  the  serious 
consequences  that  may  ensue  from  an  introduction  to 
the  beautiful  Miss  Leighton.  But  as  for  capitulating,  I 
shall  not  do  it  while  there  is  a  shot  in  the  locker,  depend 
upon  it." 

«  I  think,"  said  Belmonte,  laughingly,  "  that  she  will 
answer  your  complaints  more  effectually  than  any  law- 
yer could.  But  you  must,  first  of  all,  dispossess  her  of 
her  antiquated  ideas, —  she  associates  those  of  your 
profession  with  '  Uriah  Heep,'  '  Quirk,  Gammon  & 
Snap,'  'Sergeant  Buzfuz,'  and  that  class  of  the  legal 
fraternity.  She  is  quite  a  novel  reader,  you  must  know, 
and  lawyers  are  no  great  favorites  with  these  dainty 
gentlemen  of  the  quill." 

"  I  can  easily  remove  her  prejudices.  It  will  be  im- 
possible for  her  to  resist  two  honest  faces  like  ours ;  for 
you  must  stand  sponsor  for  me  if  necessary,  eh,  Bel- 
monte ?  " 

"Any  thing  to  aid  a  friend  in  difficulty,"  said  Bel- 
monte ;  "  but  I  don't  see  the  force  of  your  argument. 
Our  faces  are  unquestionably  honest  ones,  but  beauty  is 
not  always  attracted  by  honesty." 

"  You  discourage  me  in  the  outset,"  said  Hastings. 
"  I  had  depended  for  my  success  upon  the  natural 
alliance  of  like  attributes.  Beauty  and  Honesty  are  near 
relatives.  I  am  honest,  she  is  beautiful;  ergo  —  you 
understand  the  conclusion." 

"  That  is  an  obsolete  idea,"  said  Belmonte,  humorously. 


OR,   LIFE   BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  25 

"  1  believe  in  the  natural  attraction  of  opposites.    I  know 
Shakspeare  has  said  that 

' Virtue,  as  it  never  will  be  moved, 

Though  lewdness  court  it  in  a  shape  of  Heaven ; 
So  lust,  though  to  a  radiant  angel  linked, 
Will  sate  itself  in  a  celestial  bed, 
And  prey  on  garbage.' 

That  is  all  very  well  in  poetry,  but  it  makes  wretched 
prose.  If  the  sentiment  were  true,  I  fear  that  Mrs. 
Belmonte  and  I  would  never  have  become  one  flesh. 
I  make  no  pretensions,  Hastings,  to  rigid  virtue." 

Hastings  wondered  that  Belmonte  should  introduce 
his  wife  into  a  conversation  so  light  and  trifling, 
and  only  accounted  for  it  upon  the  ground  that  he  had 
been  imbibing  champagne  freely.  Not  wishing  to  pro- 
long an  interview  that  might  be  unpleasant  to  Bel- 
monte on  sober  reflection,  he  said:  "Be  my  success 
sure  or  doubtful,  let  us  drink  the  health  of  this  bewitch- 
ing Hebe."  As  Hastings  said  this,  they  touched  glasses 
—  emptied  them  —  paid  their  reckoning  —  got  into  their 
carriage,  and  drove  away. 

3 


CHAPTER    III. 


AT  the  time  mentioned  in  the  last  chapter,  William 
Hastings  had  known  Walter  Belmonte  about  six 
months.  The  acquaintance  commenced  by  Belmonte 
applying  to  Hastings  for  his  professional  opinion  re- 
specting the  title,  descent,  etc.  of  certain  property.  The 
nature  of  the  business  was  such  as  to  bring  them  fre- 
quently together ;  and  in  consequence,  quite  an  intimacy 
had  sprung  up  between  them.  Hastings  did  not  like 
Belmonte,  however ;  he  believed  him  to  be  unscrupu- 
lous and  unprincipled ;  yet  he  pretended  to  be  his  friend, 
in  order  that  he  might  the  better  thwart  his  wicked  pur- 
poses. Notwithstanding  this  seeming  friendship  be- 
tween them,  Hastings  had  never  as  yet  been  introduced 
to  Mrs.  Belmonte,  neither  had  he  ever  seen  her.  He 
had  more  than  once  heard  her  spoken  of,  and  always  in 
terms  of  the  highest  praise.  Some  of  his  friends  were 
personally  acquainted  with  her,  and  from  them  he  had 
learned  that  she  was  a  beautiful,  accomplished,  and 
charming  lady.  It  will  readily  be  supposed,  therefore, 
that  he  accepted  Belmonte's  invitation  to  dine  and  spend 
the  evening  at  his  house  with  feelings  of  more  than 
ordinary  pleasure.  He  looked  forward  to  Saturday 
evening,  and  promised  himself  no  small  happiness.  As 
for  the  beautiful  Miss  Leighton,  she  never  entered  his 
mind  again  until  he  met  her  at  the  party.  He  had  fre- 

(26) 


THE  CROOKED   ELM.  27 

quently  heard  her  spoken  of  as  being  the  belle  of  Sara- 
toga and  other  watering  places  ;  but  he  had  no  curiosity 
or  ambition  to  make  her  acquaintance.  Hastings  was 
fond  of  ladies'  society,  but  was  not  what  was  called 
a  "ladies'  man."  He  was  dignified,  affable,  and 
easy  in  his  manners,  collected  and  pleasing  in  his  ad- 
dress, and  withal  had  a  handsome  and  graceful  figure. 
These  characteristics,  coupled  with  honesty  and  a  high 
moral  character,  made  him  a  favorite  with  the  ladies. 
He  could,  when  he  liked,  be  reserved  and  cold  as  an 
icicle,  or  mild  and  genial  as  a  summer  morning.  He 
had  the  faculty  of  reading  readily  the  thoughts  of  others, 
and,  as  I  might  add,  the  art  of  keeping  one  in  doubt  and 
suspense.  Like  the  cat,  he  would  sometimes  torture  a 
victim.  This  may  be  inferred  from  his  previously  de- 
scribed conversation  with  Mrs.  Delacy.  I  have  said 
that  he  was  -fond  of  ladies'  society ;  it  was  the  society 
of  the  virtuous  and  refined,  however,  not  that  of  the  gay 
and  dissolute. 

Saturday  evening  came,  after  a  great  deal  of  patient 
waiting,  and  about  twenty  persons  of  both  sexes  had 
assembled  at  Belmonte's  residence  on  Fifth  Avenue. 
Among  the  number  was  William  Hastings.  He  had 
been  presented  to  Mrs.  Belmonte,  the  bewitching  Miss 
Leighton,  and  several  others  of  the  party.  Dinner  was 
over,  and  they  had  all  assembled  in  the  large  and  bril- 
liantly lit  drawing-room.  Hastings  had  just  excused 
himself  to  Miss  Leighton,  whom  he  had  the  honor  to 
wait  upon  to  the  dinner  table,  and  had  passed  to  where 
Mrs.  JBelmonte  was  seated,  some  little  distance  away, 
conversing  with  several  lady  and  gentleman  friends. 
When  he  joined  the  circle,  Mrs.  Belmonte  said:  — 

"  I  appeal  to  you,  Mr.  Hastings,  —  don't  you  think 
Miss  Leighton  charming  ?  " 

"  I  fear,"  replied  he,  pleasantly^  "  that  I  am  an  inter- 


28  THE  CROOKED   ELM; 

ested  witness  but  if  my  evidence  is  good  in  this  court 
I  shall  say,  most  decidedly  !  " 

"  Don't  you  think  she  has  beautiful  eyes  ?  "  continued 
Mrs.  Belmonte. 

"  If  you  lead  me  into  particularities,"  answered  Hast- 
ings, "  I  fear  that  I  shall  contradict  myself ;  so  I  say, 
generally,  that  I  think  her  very  handsome  —  that  com- 
prises eyes,  ears,  nose,  mouth  —  every  thing." 

"  You  lawyers  are  remarkably  shrewd,"  said  Mrs.  Bel- 
monte, in  reply.  "  You  deal  only  in  generalities.  You 
are  afraid  of  committing  yourselves  to  any  thing  defi- 
nite, —  that  is  why  so  many  of  you  remain  single." 

"  We  doubtless  commit  an  unpardonable  mistake  in 
remaining  so,"  said  Hastings,  "which  my  friend  Bel- 
monte will  evidence."  The  latter  part  of  this  sentence 
was  said  as  Belmonte  joined  the  circle.  A  general  con- 
versation of  a  lively  and  mirthful  character  ensued,  in 
which  all  present  joined.  Dancing  was  introduced  later 
in  the  evening,  and  all  was  life  and  gayety.  From  the 
first  moment  that  Hastings  saw  Mrs.  Belmonte,  he 
thought  he  recognized  in  her  countenance  one  whom  he 
had  previously  seen.  He  taxed  his  recollection,  and 
tried  to  remember  where  he  had  met  her,  but  to  no  pur- 
pose. Her  voice  awakened  in  him  memories  of  the 
past ;  and  sometimes,  as  he  listened  to  its  sweet  and 
musical  accents,  he  thought  that  he  had  heard  it  be- 
fore ;  —  then  he  would  say  to  himself,  "  No,  it  cannot 
be,  —  I  associate  her,  doubtless,  with  some  forgotten 
dream." 

Mrs.  Belmonte  was  generally  called  handsome  by 
those  well  acquainted  with  her;  but  the  appellation  was 
not  strictly  true.  Her  pleasing  address  and  fascinating 
manners  made  her  appear  more  beautiful  than  she  really 
was.  Those  who  had  only  seen  her  without  hearing 
her  converse,  would  not  think  her  any  thing  more  than 


OR,   LIFE  BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  29 

very  good  looking.  There  was  a  charm  in  her  voice 
and  face,  when  engaged  in  animated  conversation,  that 
was  more  than  a  substitute  for  smooth  and  regular 
features.  She  was  naturally  modest  and  retiring,  and 
could  only  appear  to  advantage  when  in  the  society  of 
those  with  whom  she  was  well  acquainted.  She  was 
about  the  medium  size  —  had  light  brown  hair  and  a 
fair  complexion.  Her  eyes  were  of  a  dark  grayish 
color,  and  were  shaded  by  heavy  eyelashes.  Her  mouth 
was  small,  and  her  lips  were  a  ruby  red.  She  had 
small  white  hands,  with  fingers  beautifully  tapered ;  — 
add  to  these  a  full  bust  and  a  fine  figure,  and  you  have 
an  imperfect,  though  not  an  entirely  untrue,  sketch  of 
Mrs.  Belmonte.  What  I  have  said,  however,  will 
scarcely  give  the  reader  a  faint  shadow  of  what  she 
was.  Descriptions  of  faces  and  forms,  of  eyes,  mouth, 
nose,  hair,  and  features  generally,  are,  in  my  opinion, 
dull,  stiff,  and  stupid  things.  How  many  there  are  who 
are  alike  in  these  respects.  They  have  the  same  colored 
hair,  the  same  eyes,  and  are  the  same  in  every  thing,  save 
in  themselves.  So  with  Mrs.  Belmonte.  To  look  at, 
she  was  not  unlike  many  that  we  every  day  meet;  but 
to  converse  with,  she  was  peculiarly  herself,  and  differed 
from  them  as  much  as  day  differs  from  night.  On  the 
occasion  I  have  mentioned,  she  wore  a  dress  of  rich 
green  velvet,  so  made  as  to  display  her  beautiful  neck 
and  exquisitely  moulded  arms ;  each  sleeve  was  grace- 
fully looped  on  the  shoulder  with  a  large  single  dia- 
mond ;  her  hair  was  braided  short  and  rolled  in  thick 
plaits  around  her  beautifully  shaped  head,  and  was 
fastened  behind  with  a  diamond  arrow.  During  the 
evening  she  was  as  lively  and  gay  and  lovely  as  she 
had  ever  been  in  her  life.  Hastings  thought,  however, 
that  he  detected  occasionally,  when  conversing  with 
3* 


30  THE   CROOKED  ELM; 

her,  an  expression  of  melancholy,  if  not  of  unhappi- 
ness.  We  leave  the  reader  to  say  whether  or  not  he 
was  right  in  his  conjectures,  as  her  history  is  developed 
in  this  story. 

The  party  had  ceased  dancing,  and  the  bewitching 
Miss  Leighton  was  seated  at  the  piano.  Beside  her 
stood  Mr.  Belmonte,  and  two  or  three  other  gentlemen. 
Hastings  and  Mrs.  Belmonte  were  seated  some  distance 
away,  engaged  in  conversation.  Miss  Leighton  sung 
and  played  selections  from  different  operas.  Her  sing- 
ing and  her  execution  upon  the  piano  were  faultless ; 
or,  at  least,  it  would  be  difficult  for  an  amateur  to  point 
out  any  defects  in  either;  yet  there  was  something 
wanting  to  give  the  proper  effect  to  the  words  of  the 
music; — it  might  be  more  of  soul,  —  or  it  might  be 
that  the  singing  and  playing  were  a  little,  a  very  little, 
overdone.  Reader,  have  you  not  often  listened  in  an 
opera,  when  some  of  the  most  sublime  passages  were 
being  sung  with  seeming  perfection  of  execution,  with- 
out being  much  affected  by  the  singing  ?  You  could 
not  tell  why,  but  such  was  the  fact.  So  with  Miss 
Leighton,  —  she  sung  and  played  charmingly,  yet  with- 
out charming  any  one  into  the  spirit  of  the  piece.  She 
was  rapturously  and  repeatedly  encored,  however,  and 
all  were  unanimous  in  pronouncing  the  music  enchant- 
ing. When  she  had  finished  playing,  Mrs.  Belmonte, 
after  some  persuasion  by  her  guests,  was  waited  upon 
to  the  piano  by  Mr.  Hastings.  She  first  sung  and 
played  the  beautiful  Cavatina,  in  the  opera  of  Beatrice 
DP  Tenda,  commencing, — 

"  Oh  !  divina  Agnese  tu  basteresti  a  me." 

When  she  had  finished  this  charming  piece,  she  was 
greeted  with  the  hearty  encores  of  all  in  the  room  ;  and 
during  her  performance  of  it,  every  one  had  been  as 


OK,   LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  31 

still  as  the  grave.  There  was  a  soul  in  her  singing, 
that  found  sympathy  in  the  hearts  of  those  who  listened 
to  her.  Hastings  was  profuse  in  his  praises,  and  yet  so 
judicious  in  the  use  of  his  language  as  not  to  be 
thought  guilty  of  flattery.  She  next  sung  and  played 
the  ballad,  "  The  Heart  Bowed  Down"  in  the  opera  of 
the  Bohemian  Girl,  commencing,  — 

"  The  heart  bowed  down  by  weight  of  woe, 
To  weakest  hopes  will  cling." 

When  she  came  to  the  words,  — 

"  The  mind  will,  in  its  worst  despair, 

Still  ponder  o'er  the  past ; 
On  moments  of  delight,  that  were 
Too  beautiful  to  last,"— 

she  threw  so  much  of  soul  into  them,  and  looked  so 
much  the  sentiment  they  express,  that  Hastings  was 
electrified  and  enchanted.  Both  she  and  the  words 
seemed  to  carry  him  back  to  other  and  happier  days, 
and  awaken  memories  of  the  cherished  and  fondly  re- 
membered past.  As  she  continued,  — 

"  For  memory  is  the  only  friend, 
That  grief  can  call  its  own," 

he  stood  seemingly  lost  in  thought.  When  she  finished 
the  ballad,  and  was  receiving  the  usual  expressions  of 
approbation  and  delight,  Hastings  forgot  to  join  in  their 
praises.  He  was  revisiting,  in  imagination,  the  scenes 
and  incidents  of  his  childhood.  After  they  had  pro- 
fusely complimented  her  performance  of  the  piece,  he 
gave  her  his  arm  and  handed  her  to  a  seat,  saying  as 
they  passed,  so  as  not  to  be  heard  by  any  one  except 
herself— 


32  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

"  Mrs.  Belmonte,  1  think  '  The  Heart  Bowed  Down ' 
is  a  lovely  ballad,  and  I  have  to  thank  you  for  awaken- 
ing in  me  an  appreciation  of  it  that  I  never  before 
felt. 

"  Your  praise,  though  undeserved,  flatters  me,"  said 
Mrs.  Belmonte ;  "  for,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  you  are  fond 
of  music." 

"  I  never  had  thought  myself  passionately  fond  of  it  • 
until  to-night,"  said  Hastings,  smilingly.  "  I  am  com- 
pelled, however,  to  change  my  mind  now." 

"  None  of  your  flattery,  Mr.  Hastings,"  said  she,  evi- 
dently not  displeased  at  the  compliment  paid  her.  She 
then  asked,  "  Do  you  like  the  English,  or  Italian  opera 
better?" 

"  If  you  limit  me  to  this  evening,  I  must  say  Eng- 
lish; but  if  I  am  permitted  to  except  this  evening,  I 
will  say  Italian." 

"  Again,  Mr.  Hastings,"  replied  Mrs.  Belmonte,  "  flat- 
tery is  inexcusable  in  a  gentleman." 

"  If  I  have  spoken  too  warmly  in  praise  of  your 
singing,"  said  Hastings,  earnestly,  "you  must  blame 
yourself  for  it.  In  future  you  must  sing  with  less  effect, 
if  you  would  be  praised  less." 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Belmonte,  "a  truce  to  the  subject 
now.  I  see  that  supper  is  announced."  They  were  then 
joined  by  Mr.  Belmonte,  with  Miss  Leighton  leaning  on 
.  his  arm.  "  Hastings,"  said  he,  familiarly,  as  he  came  up, 
"will  you  and  Mrs.  Belmonte  accompany  us  to  the 
table  ?  "  Mrs.  Belmonte  took  Hastings's  arm,  and  they, 
together  with  the  other  guests,  repaired  to  the  supper 
room. 

It  was  about  one  o'clock  at  night  before  all  of  the 
party  had  dispersed.  Hastings  lingered  longer  than  the 
rest.  During  the  evening  he  had  conversed  more  with 
Mrs.  Belmonte  than  with  any  other.  He  was  pleased 


OK,  LIFE   BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  33 

,nd  charmed  with  her;  he  knew  not  why,  but  she 
seemed  to  him  like  a  friend  whom  he  had  known  for 
years.  He  finally  took  his  leave,  after  promising  Mrs. 
Belmonte  to  call  soon  and  renew  his  acquaintance. 
That  night  he  rode  home  in  deep  thought.  Memories 
of  other  days  had  been  awakened,  —  memories  hallowed 
by  their  sweet  associations,  —  memories  of  days  and 
events  never  to  be  forgotten. 


CHAPTER    IV. 


IT  was  the  latter  part  of  May.  The  weather  was 
warm  and  pleasant.  The  snowy  and  frosty  robes  of 
winter  had  been  laid  aside,  and  nature,  beautiful  and 
lovely  nature,  was  veiled  in  sunshine  and  living  spring. 
The  smooth  waters  of  the  Hudson  seemed  to  smile  as 
they  moved  lazily  along,  reflecting  the  bright  sunbeams 
which  rested  upon .  their  surface.  Its  banks,  together 
with  the  trees  and  fields  which  lined  its  borders,  were 
green  clad,  and  alive  with  the  "  songs  of  birds  and  the 
hum  of  bees."  The  robin  had  returned  to  its  northern 
home,  and  had  commenced  refitting  and  rebuilding  its 
nest  over  the  window ;  the  ground-squirrel  was  frisking 
playfully  about  on  the  dry  leaves  under  the  hedges  and 
fences,  or  was  eating  a  nut  while  seated  in  the  sun  on 
the  stump  of  a  tree ;  the  atmosphere  was  freighted  with 
the  sweet  odor  of  flowers,  and  seemed  to  impart  to  every 
living  thing  the  spirit  of  reverie  and  of  dreams. 

Not  far  from  New  York,  under  a  thick  cluster  of 
trees  on  the  east  bank  of  the  Hudson,  sat  a  little  girl 
busily  engaged  making  a  wreath  of  natural  flowers. 
She  was  seemingly  about  six  or  seven  years  old ;  her 
rich  auburn  hair  hung  carelessly  over  her  face,  and  fell 
in  curls  upon  her  shoulders;  her  large  blue  eyes,  con- 
cealed under  her  long  eyelashes,  were  intently  inspecting 
the  nearly  finished  wreath.  As  she  sat  on  her  little 


OB,   LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  35 

Btool,  with  one  leg  thrown  over  the  other,  and  with  her 
little  fingers  busily  arranging  the  flowers  in  her  lap,  she 
said :  — 

"  Now,  Rover !  I  shall  soon  have  it  ready  for  you." 
As  she  said  this,  a  large  Newfoundland  dog  which  lay 
on  the  grass  by  her  side,  hearing  his  name  mentioned, 
raised  his  head  and  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  but 
seeing  that  all  was  right,  and  that  he  was  not  wanted, 
he  laid  his  head  down  again  and  closed  his  eyes.  When 
she  had  completed  the  wreath  she  jumped  up,  and,  put- 
ting her  arms  round  the  dog's  neck,  said  :  — 

"  Here,  Rover !  get  up  quick,  I  've  made  a  collar  for 
you."  The  dog  got  up  as  requested ;  and  after  some 
coaxing  and  petting  to  keep  him  still,  she  succeeded  in 
putting  the  flowers  round  his  neck.  Then  bursting 
into  a  hearty  and  joyous  laugh,  and  clapping  her  little 
sun-burned* hands,  she  exclaimed:  — 

"  O  Rover !  you  look  so  funny ! "  She  then  laughed 
again,  while  Rover,  wagging  his  large  bushy  tail  and 
dropping  his  ears,  looked  as  much  ashamed  as  he  con- 
veniently could.  But  he  thought  too  much  of  his  little 
mistress  to  find  fault  with  her,  so  he  only  continued  to 
stand  still  and  wag  his  tail,  and  look  ashamed.  She 
amused  herself  at  Rover's  expense  for  some  time,  —  now 
seating  herself  on  her  stool  to  look  at  him,  then  jumping 
up  and  arranging  the  wreath  differently,  as  some  new 
fancy  struck  her,  until  Rover,  as  if  feeling  that  he  had 
afforded  her  amusement  enough  for  that  time,  walked 
diffidently  up  to  her,  and  stooping  his  head,  licked  her 
hand  gently,  as  much  as  to  say:  "please  take  this  off 
now."  The  little  girl,  as  if  understanding  this  humble 
petition  of  her  pet  dog,  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck, 
and  hugging  him  close  up  to  her,  said :  — 

"Dear,  good  old  Rover!  you  are  so  funny!"  She 
then  removed  the  flowers,  and  began  to  shape  them  into 


36  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

a  little  work  basket,  while  Rover,  seeing  that  he  was  no 
longer  wanted  to  play  the  harlequin,  stretched  himself 
again  on  the  grass.  The  basket  was  soon  finished,  and  the 
little  girl  seated  herself  beside  the  dog  as  he  lay  there, 
and  throwing  her  arm  across  his  shoulder,  she  laid  her 
head  down  upon  him,  and  with  her  hair  shrouding  her 
sweet  face,  fell  fast  asleep. 

About  a  hundred  yards  from  where  the  little  girl  and 
Rover  lay,  a  man  sat  concealed  in  an  underwood  and 
thicket  of  trees.  He  had  been  watching  her  and  the  dog 
attentively  for  some  time,  and  evidently  began  to  feel 
impatient ;  for  no  sooner  had  the  little  girl  fallen  asleep, 
than  he,  leaving  his  hiding-place,  crept  stealthily  up  to 
the  edge  of  a  little  hillock,  which  lay  partly  between  him 
and  them,  and  seated  himself  in  a  clump  of  bushes, 
where  he  could  see  them  unobserved.  He  carried  a 
fowling-piece,  and  in  appearance  resembled  a  man  who 
had  taken  his  gun  for  a  few  hours'  shooting.  He  kept 
a  diligent  look-out  on  all  sides,  especially  in  the  direction 
of  a  large  country  residence,  not  far  distant  from  him. 
The  path  that  led  to  the  house,  and  the  one  which  the 
little  girl  would  probably  follow  in  returning  home, 
wound  round  the  hillock,  and  passed  but  a  few  steps 
from  where  the  man  lay.  Once  he  raised  his  gun  to  his 
shoulder,  and  aimed  it  at  the  dog ;  but  seeming  to  change 
his  mind,  he  took  it  down  again  without  firing,  and 
remained  intently  looking  at  them,  as  they  slept,  un- 
conscious of  danger. 

Not  far  from  him  in  a  skiff,  closely  drawn  up  under 
the  bank  of  the  river,  sat  another  man,  somewhat  muf- 
fled up  for  the  season  of  the  year,  apparently  engaged 
in  fishing.  Occasionally  he  would  turn  his  eyes  anx- 
iously in  the  direction  of  the  man  with  the  gun,  but 
seeing  no  one,  he  would  only  mutter  a  curse  and  con- 
tinue to  fish.  He  did  not  seem  to  be  lucky  as  a  fisher- 


OR,   LIFE  BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  37 

man ;  for  notwithstanding  he  had  remained  in  the  same 
place  for  nearly  two  hours,  with  tfook  and  line  thrown 
out,  he  had  not  as  yet  caught  a  single  minnow.  The 
sun  had  passed  the  meridian,  and  was  shedding  its  hot 
rays  down  upon  his  head  without  mercy ;  but,  like  his 
philosophic  predecessor  Izaak  Walton,  he  continued  his 
piscatory  employment  without  seeming  to  think  of  his 
own  personal  comfort,  and  still  invited  at  least  a  nibble 
from  some  straggling  swimmer.  If  it  really  was  his 
wish  to  catch  fish,  he  must  have  been  sorely  disappointed. 
But  he  seemed  to  have  some  other  object  in  view;  for 
once,  as  he  turned  his  eyes  to  the  wood,  he  exclaimed,  in 
a  smothered  undertone  :  "  Hang  the  knave !  why  don't 
he  return  ?  " 

The  little  girl  at  length  awoke,  and  rubbing  her  large 
blue  eyes  with  her  tiny  hands,  she  said :  — 

"  Come,  Rover,  let  us  go  home."  She  then  took  the 
little  basket  of  flowers  which  she  had  made  in  one  hand, 
and,  throwing  one  arm  round  the  dog's  neck,  started 
for  home,  following  the  path  that  wound  round  the  hil- 
lock. When  they  came  near  to  the  clump  of  bushes 
where  the  man  lay  concealed,  Rover  turned  his  head 
and  uttered  a  deep  growl.  This  frightened  the  little 
girl,  and  clinging  closer  than  ever  to  his  neck,  she  looked 
wildly  in  the  direction  which  Rover  pointed  out;  but 
seeing  nothing  to  be  alarmed  at,  she  said,  "  Come  on, 
Rover.  You  naughty  man,  how  dare  you  frighten  me 
so  ?  "  She  pulled  at  the  dog's  neck,  but  he  would  not 
move ;  he  remained  standing  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  bushes,  and  continued  to  growl  angrily. 

"  &over,  why  won't  — "  before  she  had  finished  the 
sentence,  the  man  with  the  gun  rose  to  his  feet  and 
said,  in  a  mild  and  gentle  voice :  — 

"  My  little  Miss,  can  you  tell  me  who  lives  in.  that 
house  yonder  ?  " 


38  THE   CROOKED   ELM  J 

She  was  too  much  frightened  to  answer,  —  she  stood 
clinging  to  her  dog  for  protection  without  saying  a 
word.  The  man  was  nearly  between  her  and  the 
house ;  had  it  not  been  for  this,  she  probably"  would 
have  run  at  once  for  home.  "  Don't  be  frightened,  my 
little  girl,  I  will  not  harm  you,"  said  the  man,  blandly,  as 
he  advanced  a  few  steps  towards  her.  "  Can  you  tell  me 
who  lives  in  that  beautiful  house  ?  " 

"  Grandpapa,  please  sir,"  answered  she,  falteringly. 
Rover  ^now  showed  such  evident  signs  of  displeasure 
that  the  man  stopped,  afraid  to  go  nearer,  and  com- 
menced trying  to  coax  him  into  a  better  humor,  but  all 
to  no  purpose.  The  little  girl,  as  if  aided  by  instinct, 
said:  — 

"  Don't  come  near  Rover,  please,  sir ;  he  will  bite 
you."  The  man  with  the  gun  seemed  to  be  of  the 
same  opinion ;  for  he  remained  standing  where  he  was, 
trying  to  allay  her  fears,  and  to  appease  the  wrath  of  the 
dog. 

"  Please,  sir,  I  want  to  go  home,"  said  she,  as  the 
tears  came  into  her  eyes. 

"  Won't  you  stop  and  talk  with  me  a  moment  ?  I 
have  something  very  pretty  to  show  you,"  said  he. 

"  No,  sir.  I  must  go  home  to  grandpapa."  The 
tears  were  now  running  down  her  cheeks,  and  she  stood 
trembling,  with  her  large  blue  eyes  turned  imploringly 
upon  the  man  before  her.  She  hesitated  a  moment, 
then  stepping  timidly  forward,  with  her  arm  still  round 
the  dog's  neck,  she  said :  — 

"  I  am  sure  Rover  will  bite  you,  sir."  Indeed  Rover 
began  to  show  such  symptoms  of  anger,  as  he  stepped 
forward  with  his  mistress,  that  the  man  walked  a  little 
further  away  from  the  path.  As  he  did  so  the  little  girl 
passed  by  where  he  stood,  and  ran  hastily  along  the  path 
towards  the  house.  Rover,  slower  in  his  pace,  and  with 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  39 

his  head  turned  towards  the  man  continually,  followed 
her,  and  saw  her  safely  enter  her  grandpapa's  door. 

The  man  with  the  gun,  seeming  perplexed  at  this  turn 
of  affairs,  stood  looking  in  the  direction  of  the  house  for 
a  moment,  then  turning,  he  quickly  passed  out  of  sight 
and  descended  the  bank  to  the  river  where  the  man  sat 
in  the  skiff  fishing. 

"  You  stupid  fool ! "  said  the  fisherman,  when  he  came 
up,  "  why  have  you  come  back  here  alone  ?  "  Michael 
Merle,  for  it  was  no  other  than  he,  sprang  into  the  skiff 
and  answered  the  question,  so  politely  put  to  him,  by  re- 
lating all  that  had  occurred.  This  he  did  hurriedly. 
When  he  had  finished,  he  added :  — 

"  But  we  must  not  remain  longer  here  — we  may  be 
discovered." 

"  W7hat  if  we  are  discovered  ? "  replied  the  other. 
"  Have  I  not  a  right  to  fish  in  this  river  ?  and  have  you 
not  a  right  to  shoot  upon  its  banks  if  you  like  the 
sport  ?  "  Then,  as  if  suddenly  recollecting  the  charac- 
ter of  the  man  he  was  with,  he  asked :  — 

"  Where  could  we  conceal  ourselves,  if  we  wished 
it?" 

"  There  is  a  little  cove  about  a  mile  above  here,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  river,"  answered  Merle ;  "  we  could 
remain  there  undiscovered  until  nightfall." 

"  Pull  for  it  at  once,  then,"  replied  the  other. 

Walter  Belmonte,  the  fisherman,  was  undecided  as  to 
what  should  be  done  next.  He  did  not  like  to  lose 
sight  of  Merle  until  his  object  was  accomplished ;  yet 
he  kiiew  not  what  to  do.  It  was  growing  late;  the 
little  girl  had  been  so  frightened,  he  thought,  that  she 
would  not  venture  out  alone  again  that  day.  He  was 
not  disheartened,  however,  at  this  failure  of  his  plans ; 
«  for,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  it  is  all  for  the  best,  perhaps, 
for  there  are  so  many  vessels  passing  and  repassing,  that 


40  THE  CROOKED   ELM  J 

it  would  have  been  difficult  to  conceal  her  and  escape 
undetected."  They  at  length  reached  the  cove,  and, 
pulling  the  skiff  close  up  under  the  projecting  rocks,  they 
remained  sitting  in  it  in  silence  for  some  time.  Bel- 
monte,  disguised  as  much  as  it  was  possible  for  him  to 
be  in  such  a  situation,  and  looking  as  much  unlike 
himself  as  he  well  could,  sat  in  the  stem  of  the  skiff 
engaged,  seemingly,  in  deep  thought.  The  sun  had 
already  disappeared  behind  the  western  horizon,  and 
darkness  —  thick  darkness  shrouded  these  two  men 
in  its  folds,  as  they  sat  in  silence  in  their  hiding-place. 
Not  a  ripple  disturbed  the  smooth  surface  of  the  river ; 
all  was  still  and  dark  and  gloomy.  At  length  Bel- 
monte  raised  his  head  and  asked  :  — 

"  Can  you  kill  that  dog  with  poison  between  this 
and  Saturday  night  ?  "  Merle  answered,  laconically  :  — 

"  I  think  I  can." 

"  Do  so,  then,"  said  Belmonte,  "  and  so  secretly  as  not 
to  be  discovered  by  any  one." 

"  I  understand,"  replied  Merle. 

"  You  had  better  give  him  the  poison  early  in  the 
evening  ;  he  will  then  be  dead  before  morning,  and  no 
one  will  suspect  the  cause." 

"  It  shall  be  done  as  you  suggest,"  replied  Merle. 

"  I  will  meet  you  at  this  place,"  said  Belmonte,  after 
thinking  a  moment,  "  on  Saturday  night.  I  shall  ex- 
pect to  find  you  here  a  little  after  dark." 

"  You  shall  not  be  disappointed,  sir,"  said  Merle. 
They  then  rowed  out  of  the  little  cove,  and  passed  to 
the  opposite  side  of  the  river,  where  Belmonte  took 
leave  of  his  accomplice  and  returned  to  the  city.  Bel- 
monte began  already  to  reap  the  fruits  of  evil-doing. 
He  had  placed  himself,  as  he  feared,  in  the  power  of 
Merle —  his  first  plan  had  failed  —  his  mind  was  troubled 
—  he  was  unhappy. 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  41 

Merle,  left  to  himself  and  his  own  dark  thoughts,  rowed 
out  into  the  current  of  the  tide,  and  dropped  down  the 
river.  As  he  did  so,  he  muttered :  "  This  is  a  bad  busi- 
ness—  I  have  no  heart  for  it.  Were  I  asked  to  take  the 
life  of  a  grown  up  man,  it  would  be  quite  another 
thing ;  but  this  little  blue-eyed  angel !  she  looked  at  me 
so  pleadingly  that  my  heart  almost  failed  me.  There 
is  some  deep  villany  planned  against  her,  I  will  war- 
rant. There  is  more  wickedness  concealed  under  rich 
broadcloth  than  is  dreamed  of  by  the  common  herd.  I 
will  wager  my  life  that  he  whom  I  have  just  left  is  a 
most  precious  villain.  If  I  thought  that  he  intended  to 
murder  the  child,  I  would  go  no  further  in  the  business. 
Blow  me,  if  I  wouldn't  desert  at  once !  "  He  remained 
thinking  a  moment,  and  then  said  :  "  I  am  too  deep  in 
the  matter  to  recede.  Why  should  I  be  so  chicken- 
hearted  ?  No !  I  will  go  forward  —  I  will  be  true  to 
my  trust."  When  he  had  descended  the  river  about  a 
mile,  he  turned  the  skiff  towards  the  Jersey  shore,  and 
soon  drew  up  near  a  small  cottage  under  the  high 
wall  of  rocks  known  as  the  Palisades.  A  flickering 
light  shone  from  the  gable  window,  which  indicated 
that  the  house  was  tenanted.  It  was  but  one  story 
high,  and  did  not  differ  in  appearance  from  the  many 
houses  which  line  the  Hudson.  Merle  fastened  his  skiff 
and  walked  cautiously  up  to  the  door  of  the  hut,  and 
knocked  once,  twice,  thrice.  He  then,  after  standing 
a  moment,  repeated  the  knock,  but  in  a  different 
way.  At  this  signal  an  old  woman  came  to  a  little 
side  window,  and  opening  it,  said :  "  Who  the  divil 
are  you,  that  have  come  to  disturb  a  lone  crater  like 
mysel,  at  this  hour  o'  the  night  ?  "  When  she  had  fin- 
ished this  long  sentence,  and  had  stopped  to  refill  her 
speaking  apparatus  for  a  second  fire,  Merle  said,  in  a 
4* 


42  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

low  voice,  "  Aunt  Judy,  is  all  safe  ? "  These  words 
were  electrical  in  their  effect ;  for  she  dropped  the  win- 
dow, and  unbolting  the  door  hastily,  said,  as  she  seized 
Merle  by  the  hand  with  both  of  hers :  "  Faith,  Robin, 
and  is  it  you,  lad  ?  By  the  Holy  Powers !  I  thought 
you  were  niver  corning  back  any  more.  Be  sated, 
acushla  —  be  sated,  and  tell  Aunt  Judy  where  you  've 
been  this  long,  long  while  past." 

"  I  have  no  time  to  talk  now,  Aunt  Judy,"  said  Merle, 
almost  tenderly. 

"  By  St.  Patrick !  but  I  've  waited  for  you  long,  and 
niver  for  a  moment  have  I  stopped  feeling  unasy  for 
you;  —  and  you  are  safe,  Robin,"  said  the  old  woman, 
as  she  stood  by  his  side,  all  smiles.  "  The  Holy  Vargin 
be  praised! "  As  she  said  this,  she  crossed  herself;  then, 
taking  a  chair,  she  seated  herself  close  by  Merle,  and 
looked  at  him  as  though  her  eyes  feasted  upon  what 
she  saw. 

"  I  have  no  time  now,  Aunt  Judy,  to  spend  here," 
said  Merle ;  "  but  to-morrow  night  I  will  talk  with 
you." 

"  God  bless  you,  Robin,  for  saying  so.  To-morrow 
night  —  to-morrow  night,"  muttered  the  old  woman. 
"  I  wish  it  was  to-morrow  night  now.  You  know  best, 
but  I  think  you  might  talk  to  a  lone,  lorn  crater  like  me 
a  wee  while  the  night," 

"  No,  Aunt  Judy ;  I  want  you  to  get  me  the  keys," 
replied  Merle,  rising  from  his  chair. 

"  But,  honey,  to-morrow  night  you  must  be  here 
sure,"  said  the  old  woman.  She  then  got  up,  and, 
opening  a  trap-door,  descended  into  the  cellar.  She 
soon  returned,  bringing  with  her  a  large  bundle  of  keys, 
which  she  gave  to  Merle,  saying :  "  There  they  are, 
ahag-ar,  as  safe  as  the  day  you  left  them  with  me." 
Merle  took  the  keys,  blinded  the  windows,  .double- 


OR,   LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  43 

locked  the  door,  and  then,  lighting  a  dark  lantern,  passed 
through  the  trap-door  and  descended  the  stairs.  As 
soon  as  he  was  at  the  bottom  he  lighted  a  candle,  and 
commenced  removing  some  stones  which  seemed  to  be 
a  part  of  the  cellar  wall.  He  soon  came  to  a  large 
stone  slab  hung  on  hinges ;  this  he  unlocked,  and  with 
some  difficulty  crept  through  the  opening  which  it 
made,  on  his  hands  and  knees.  He  then  pushed  the 
door  to,  and  locking  it  descended  three  stairs,  and  fol- 
lowed a  narrow  passage  which  led  to  another  door,  sim- 
ilar to,  but  larger  than  the  one  just  mentioned.  This 
opened  into  a  large  room,  walled  apparently  by  natural 
rocks.  A  current  of  air  passed  through  it  continually, 
caused  by  a  passage-way  leading  from  either  side  of 
the  cave  to  the  edge  of  the  rocks,  and  so  ingeniously 
concealed  as  to  prevent  being  seen  by  any  one.  Forges 
were  built  in  the  walls  of  the  cave,  and  various  tools 
and  instruments  for  counterfeiting  money  lay  scattered 
about  on  the  floor.  A  small  chest  stood  at  one  side,  and 
on  the  other  there  was  a  table  on  which  lay  piles  of 
counterfeit  bank-notes.  Merle,  when  he  entered,  glanced 
hastily  around  the  room,  and  then  went  to  the  chest, 
and  unlocking,  took  from  it — after  some  rummaging 
among  different  articles  —  a  small  paper  parcel.  He 
then  opened  two  or  three  small  bags,  containing  either 
real  or  counterfeit  gold  coin,  and  examined  them.  "  All 
is  right,"  said  he,  as  he  replaced  them  in  the  chest,  and 
locked  it.  He  then  left  the  cave  by  the  passage  which 
he  had  entered,  and  returned  to  the  house. 

"  Aunt  Judy,"  said  he,  as  soon  as  he  had  closed  the 
trap-door,  "  can  you  give  me  a  piece  of  fresh  meat  ?  " 

"  Yes,  darlint,  and  cook  it  well  for  you  besides,  sure." 
"  I  do  not  wish  it  cooked,"  replied  Merle.  The  old 
woman  stared  at  him  as  he  said  this,  but  asking  no 
questions,  went  and  got  the  slice  of  meat.  Merle  took 


44  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

it  —  left  the  house — returned  to  his  skiff,  and  rowed  to 
the  opposite  side  of  the  river,  and  accomplished,  after 
some  difficulty,  the  mission  which  Belmonte  had  in- 
trusted to  him. 

Michael  Merle,  as  I  will  for  the  present  call  him,  was 
a  man  about  the  middle  size  and  height,  and  seemingly 
about  thirty  years  old.  He  was  dark  complexioned, 
had  black  hair  and  eyes,  and  was  firmly  built.  He 
had  received  a  collegiate  education,  —  was  polished 
in  his  manners,  when  he  wished  to  be,  and  withal  was 
quite  handsome.  He  never  had  been  indicted  for  crime 
but  once,  and  then  the  charge  was  so  lame  and  so 
poorly  sustained,  that  every  one  thought  him  a  perse- 
cuted man.  At  the  time  I  have  introduced  him  into 
this  story,  he  lived  in  New  York,  and  had  been  residing 
there  for  several  years.  He  was  naturally  a  brave,  gen- 
erous, kind-hearted  man;  but  all  honorable  motives 
seemed  to  have  been  forever  blotted  out  of  his  naturally 
noble  nature.  The  causes  which  induced  his  present 
mode  of  life,  together  with  his  earlier  history,  will  be 
more  fully  developed  in  due  time.  Merle  did  not 
mingle  much  in  society,  although  he  lived,  if  not  in 
affluence,  yet  with  many  of  the  appendages  of  wealth. 
His  position,  among  those  who  knew  him,  was  that  of 
a  man  whose  income  enabled  him  to  live  in  independ- 
ence. His  lady  acquaintances  used  frequently  to  won- 
der why  he  alwaya  wore  such  a  melancholy  expression 
of  countenance,  and  why  he  went  so  seldom  into  society. 
Michael  Merle  was  the  name  he  had  assumed  for  trans- 
acting business  with  his  unknown  correspondent,  Hast- 
ings, and  was  known  to  be  so  by  Hastings,  but  not 
by  Belmonte.  He  was  known  in  New  York  by  his 
real  name,  Robin  Moulton.  He  had  three  accomplices 
in  crime,  one  the  old  beldam  already  mentioned,  the 
other  two  were  men  whom  he  had  never  seen,  and  who 


OR,   LIFE   BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  45 

knew  nothing  of  him,  except  through  his  correspondence. 
One  lived  in  New  Orleans,  the  other  in  Baltimore. 
His  only  business  with  them  was  to  furnish  them  with 
counterfeit  money,  and  receive  a  stipulated  share  of  the 
proceeds  of  the  money  put  into  circulation.  All  other 
transactions  he  conducted  himself,  unassisted  by  any 
one,  except  the  old  woman  aforesaid.  With  this  out- 
line of  Michael  Merle,  (for  I  will  still  call  him  by  his 
assumed  name,)  let  me  proceed  with  this  history. 

The  next  morning  after  the  incidents  described  in 
this  chapter,  when  the  little  girl's  grandpapa,  as  she 
called  him,  opened  the  front  door,  he  saw  lying  there  his 
favorite  dog,  Rover,  dead.  His  head  was  lying  against 
the  door,  as  if  in  his  last  moments  of  life  he  had  tried  to 
acquaint  his  little  mistress  with  his  sufferings.  The 
old  grayheaded  man,  as  he  looked  at  Rover,  could  not 
refrain  from  tears.  "  How,"  thought  he, "  can  I  impart  the 
news  to  little  Flora  ?"  (that  was  the  child's  name).  "Her 
tender  heart  will  break  when  she  sees  her  pet  dog, — 
her  companion  and  playfellow,  — '  her  dear,  poor,  good 
old  Rover,'  as  she  always  calls  him."  As  he  stood  leaning 
over  the  dog,  not  knowing  what  to  do,  and  with  the 
tears  coursing  down  his  wrinkled  cheeks,  Flora  in  her 
morning  dishabille,  and  with  her  hair  carelessly  covering 
her  beautiful  face,  came  to  the  door  where  her  grand- 
papa was  standing.  The  moment  she  saw  the  dog  lying 
dead,  she  exclaimed  wildly :  — 

"  O  grandpapa !  Who  has  killed  my  poor  Rover  ?  " 
Then,  throwing  herself  upon  the  dead  body,  she  burst  into 
an  uncontrollable  fit  of  crying.  Her  sobs  touched  the 
old  man's  heart,  and  he  too  joined  her  in  her  expres- 
sions of  grief.  That  day  was  one  of  deep  mourning  in 
that  house.  A  grave  was  dug  for  Rover  on  the  little 
hillock,  where  the  day  before  little  Flora  had  made  him 
a  wreath  of  flowers.  At  the  close  of  the  day,  just  as 


46  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

the  sun  was  sinking  behind  the  western  hills,  Flora  and 
her  grandpapa  followed  their  pet  dog,  as  he  was  earned 
in  a  beautiful  coffin  to  his  burial-place.  They  walked 
in  silence,  hand  in  hand,  filled  with  thoughts  of  sorrow 
and  of  mourning  for  the  lost  one.  When  they  came 
to  the  grave,  Flora  placed  a  wreath  of  flowers,  which 
she  had  made,  round  Rover's  neck,  bathed  as  they  were 
with  her  tears.  The  coffin  was  then  gently  lowered, 
and  she  scattered  flowers  upon  it,  until  it  was  nearly 
covered.  "  Good-by,  Rover ! "  she  then  said,  while  the 
bitter  tears  filled  her  large  blue  eyes ;  "  good-by !  I  will 
meet  you  up  in  the  stars  sometime,  for  grandpapa  says 
so."  The  old  man,  with  his  handkerchief  to  his  eyes, 
then  took  Flora's  hand  in  his,  and  they  returned  to  the 
house.  That  night,  when  the  old  man  read  a  chapter 
in  the  Bible  and  kneeled  in  prayer,  his  usual  custom  be- 
fore retiring  to  bed,  little  Flora,  with  her  arms  locked 
round  his  arm,  and  with  her  head  resting  against  it, 
listened  more  attentively  to  what  he  said  than  she  had 
ever  done  before.  When  he  prayed  that  the  Lord 
would  temper  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb,  she 
wondered  what  he  meant;  and  when  he  had  finished 
praying  and  .had  seated  himself  in  his  arm-chair,  she 
climbed  upon  his  knee,  and,  turning  her  blue  eyes 
reverently  up  into  his  face,  asked :  — 

"  Grandpapa,  what  did  you  mean  by  praying  that  the 
Lord  would  temper  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb  ?  " 

The  tears  stole  into  the  old  man's  eyes,  as  he  an- 
swered :  — 

"  God,  my  dear  child,  has  promised  to  take  care  of 
little  lambs,  and  protect  and  keep  them  in  the  cold  and 
wintry  weather.  You  know  that  little  lambs  have  not 
thick  coats  of  wool  like  the  grown  up  sheep ;  that  is 
why  God  has  promised  to  take  care  of  them.  So  God, 
my  child,  has  promised  to  take  care  of  little  children, 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  47 

and  comfort  them  when  in  trouble.  He  sees  us  and 
knows  all  about  us.  He  knows  when  we  are  happy, 
and  when  we  are  in  trouble.  You,  darling,  are  to-day 
like  a  shorn  lamb.  You  are  in  trouble ;  but  the  Lord 
sees  you,  and  will  take  care  of  you."  The  old  man 
stopped  speaking,  but  little  Flora  still  looked  him 
earnestly  in  the  face.  When  they  had  sat  thus  in 
silence  a  few  moments,  she  said :  — 

"  God  is  very  good,  is  n't  he,  grandpapa  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Flora,  he  is  good,  and  we  should  love  him." 

"  I  do  love  God  very  much,  grandpapa."  Then, 
after  intently  thinking  for  a  moment,  she  asked :  — 

"  Grandpapa,  if  God  thinks  of  little  lambs,  won't  he 
think  of  poor  Rover  too  ?  " 

"  Yes,  darling,  he  thinks  of  all  things." 

"  You  told  me,  grandpapa,  that  poor  Rover  had  gone 
up  among  the  stars.  Do  little  lambs  go  up  there  too, 
when  they  die  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  my  child,"  answered  the  old  man, 
with  the  tears  still  filling  his  eyes. 

After  conversing  in  this  way  for  some  time,  Flora 
went  to  her  bed,  and  weeping  herself  to  sleep,  dreamed 
of  her  lost  and  loved  pet,  Rover. 

The  next  morning  early,  the  old  man  and  Flora 
visited  the  grave.  Flora  planted  several  flowers  about 
and  upon  it,  and  spent  a  long  time  in  decorating  and 
fitting  it  up.  In  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day  she 
stole  away  without  the  knowledge  of  her  grandpapa, 
and  visited  Rover's  grave  again,  and  continued  to  work 
about,,  and  adorn  it.  Before  she  left,  she  kneeled  on 
the  grave,  and  closing  her  little  hands,  raised  them  be- 
fore her,  saying :  "  O  God !  please  temper  the  wind 
to  the  little  lambs,  and  keep  poor  Rover  until  I  come." 

Behind  the  little  hillock,  and  in  the  same  thicket  of 
trees  before  mentioned,  lay  Michael  Merle.  He  saw 


48  THE   CROOKED   ELM. 

little  Flora  as  she  kneeled  on  the  grave,  and  as  she 
walked  along  the  path  close  by  him.  "  I  could  take  her 
now,"  thought  he ;  but  his  heart  failed  him.  She 
walked  by  him  unconscious  of  danger.  The  Lord  had 
charge  of  her.  The  day  previous,  Merle,  seated  in  the 
same  place,  had  witnessed  the  burial  of  the  dog.  He 
had  gone  there  to  learn  the  result  of  the  poison  which 
he  had,  the  night  before,  administered  to  Rover. 

On  Saturday  night,  at  the  appointed  time,  Belmonte 
met  Merle  at  the  cove.  He  there  learned  what  had 
been  done,  and,  putting  a  purse  of  money  into  Merle's 
hand,  said :  — 

"  It  will  not  do  to  carry  out  our  plans  now.  You 
will  be  informed  by  letter,  in  the  usual  address,  of  all 
future  arrangements.  Keep  yourself  in  readiness  to  act 
upon  short  notice.  Until  you  hear  from  me  again, 
good-by." 

They  parted,  —  Belmonte  to  return  to  the  city,  and 
Merle  to  go  back  to  the  cottage  where  he  had  left  Aunt 
Judy. 


CHAPTER    V. 


WE  must  once  more,  kind  reader,  go  back  about 
seven  or  eight  years. 

It  was  a  beautiful  morning  in  the  latter  part  of 
August.  The  sun  had  just  risen  a  little  way  above  the 
eastern  hills,  and  was  shedding  its  genial  rays  over  the 
city  of  Cork  and  the  surrounding  country.  The  banks 
of  the  river  Lee,  so  picturesque,  variegated,  and  beautiful, 
seemed  to  embrace  each  sunbeam,  and  add  to  it  a  softer 
hue  from  their  own  effulgent  loveliness.  Intermingled 
with  green-clad  hills  and  shady  vales,  here  in  sunshine 
and  there  in  perpetual  shade,  the  waters  of  this  unique 
and  classic  river  lent  a  charm  to  their  enchanting  and 
lovely  inclosures.  The  antiquated  castles  which  lay  in 
ruins  on  its  banks,  together  with  the  many  churches 
and  mansions,  surrounded  by  forests  of  trees  and  pleas- 
ure-grounds, and  imbosomed  in  their  deep  green  fo- 
liage, —  all  were  looking  as  beautiful  and  charming  on 
the  morning  I  have  mentioned  as  it  were  possible  for 
them  to  look.  The  stillness  which  reigned  around 
was  now  and  then  broken  by  a  passing  boat  to  or  from 
Queenstown,  filled  with  passengers,  listening,  as  they 
looked  out  on  the  witching  scenery,  to  the  dulcet 
music  of  a  violin  or  flageolet.  There  was  a  fairy-like 
influence  pervading  the  whole  atmosphere,  which  took 
5  («) 


50  THE  CROOKED  ELM  ; 

possession  of  the  senses,  and  made  one  feel  as  if  in  the 
land  of  romance  and  dreams.  It  was  about  ten  o'clock 
on  the  said  morning,  when  an  elegant  chariot  drawn 
by  four  white  horses,  with  postilions  in  light  blue 
jackets  and  black  caps,  drew  up  before  the  door  of  a 
little  church  in  one  of  the  delightful  villages  on  the 
banks  of  the  Lee.  The  door  was  opened  and  the  steps 
let  down  by  a  liveried  lackey,  when  a  young  man,  tall, 
slight,  and  of  a  distingv.6  appearance,  alighted,  and,  in 
company  with  a  man  not  quite  his  own  height,  passed 
into  the  open  door  of  the  church.  He  wore  a  black 
cloth  morning  coat,  white  vest  beautifully  embroidered, 
white  neck  tie,  and  light  pantaloons.  To  the  peasantry 
who  had  assembled  about  the  door,  and  who  touched 
their  ragged  caps  to  him  as  he  passed,  he  threw  a  hand- 
ful of  silver  coin,  and  received  the  usual  "  God  bless 
you ! "  He  had  not  been  in  the  church  long,  when  three 
carriages  drove  up  to  the  door.  From  one  of  them  a 
young  lady  alighted,  wearing  a  white  satin  dress  cov- 
ered with  rich  lace.  A  veil  of  the  same  lace  hung  in 
graceful  folds  almost  to  her  feet.  Her  head  was  en- 
circled by  a  wreath  of  orange  blossoms,  intertwined 
with  water  lilies.  She  was  a  blonde  — tall,  graceful, 
and  had  a  beautiful  though  melancholy  countenance. 
Her  eyes  were  large,  and  as  soft  and  mellow  in  their 
expression  as  a  zephyr  morning  in  May.  Accompa- 
nying her  were  three  young  ladies  about  her  own  age, 
dressed  in  white.  They  were  followed  by  two  elderly 
gentlemen  and  their  wives,  and  by  four  or  five  young 
persons  of  both  sexes.  When  the  young  lady  entered 
the  church,  she  with  her  three  attendants  passed  up  the 
aisle  to  the  communion  table,  where  the  young  man  and 
his  companion  stood  awaiting  them.  Immediately  a 
venerable  man  with  gray  hair,  wearing  a  surplice  of 
snowy  white,  opened  a  book  and  commenced  reading,  in 


OR,   LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  51 

a  deep,  clear  voice,  the  marriage  ceremony.  When  he 
came  to  that  part  where  the  minister  asks  the  bride- 
groom, "  If  he  will  have  this  woman, "  etc.,  he  looked  the 
young  man  in  the  face  and  said :  "  William  Hast- 
ings, wilt  thou  have  this  woman  to  thy  wedded  wife, 
to  live  together  after  God's  ordinance  in  the  holy  estate 
of  matrimony  ?  Wilt  thou  love  her,  comfort  her,  honor 
and  keep  her,  in  sickness  and  in  health ;  and,  forsaking 
all  others,  keep  thee  only  unto  her,  so  long  as  ye  both 
shall  live  ?  "  The  young  man,  without  raising  his  eyes 
and  with  a  troubled  expression  of  countenance,  fal- 
tered out,  "  I  will."  The  bride  seemed  equally  unhappy. 
She  looked  as  though  her  heart  did  not  enter  into  the 
response  which  she  feebly  and  tremblingly  uttered.  As 
they  stood  with  joined  hands  before  the  altar,  each 
seemed  lost  in  thought,  and  indifferent  to  the  solemni- 
ties of  the  occasion.  At  length  the  ceremony  was 
concluded,  by  the  minister  saying : .  "  William  Hastings 
and  Ida  Linwood,  I  pronounce  you  man  and  wife." 
The  congratulations  of  friends  over,  William  Hastings 
handed  his  bride  into  the  chariot  and  drove  away, 
amid  the  thankful  cheers  of  the  villagers.  As  they 
passed  along  on  their  way  to  Cork,  under  the  thick 
shade  of  the  tall  trees  that  line  the  road,  and  beside  the 
high,  gray  old  walls  that  inclose  the  different  demesnes, 
they  spoke  not  a  word,  neither  did  they  cease  to  look 
the  embodiment  of  unhappiness. 

They  soon  entered  the  city,  followed  by  the  three 
carriages  before  mentioned,  and  drew  up  at  the  "  Impe- 
rial Hotel."  A  few  days  subsequent  to  the  wedding  just 
described,  William  Hastings  was  walking  with  his 
young  bride  in  the  "  Groves  of  Blarney?  They  had 
visited  this  celebrated  spot  to  dissipate  the  ennui  which 
they  both  felt  while  shut  up  in  the  city.  It  was  a  lovely 
morning.  The  groves,  together  with  the  little  flower- 


52  THE   CROOKED  ELM; 

garden  at  the  entrance  to  them,  were  lovely,  smiling, 
bright,  beautiful.  What  a  contrast  were  they  to  the 
gloomy  thoughts  of  Hastings  and  his  wife!  Hastings 
had  known  Ida  Linwood  from  his  childhood.  She  was 
an  only  daughter,  and  heiress  to  a  large  estate.  He  was 
an  only  son.  He  had  long  known  that  his  father  in- 
tended to  have  him  marry  her.  Indeed,  their  union  had 
been  agreed  upon  by  their  respective  parents  while  they 
were  children.  This  fact,  of  itself,  had  made  Hastings 
cold  and  reserved  to  her.  He  never  had  made  her  his 
confidante,  never  had  been  his  frank  and  generous  self 
when  in  her  society.  He  respected  and  esteemed  her ; 
he  appreciated  her  many  excellent  qualities  of  mind  and 
heart ;  but  he  did  not  love  —  he  did  not  wish  to  marry 
her.  When  they  had  walked  for  some  time  in  the 
groves,  they  seated  themselves  on  a  little  mossy  knoll. 

"  This,"  commenced  Hastings,  "  is  the  fairiest  spot 
that  I  have  ever  visited ;  but  how  little  do  we  enjoy  its 
sylvan  beauties." 

"  It  is  certainly  a  lovely  place,"  said  Mrs.  Hastings, 
replying  only  to  the  first  part  of  his  observation. 

"  Ida,"  continued  Hastings,  in  a  mild  and  kind  voice, 
"we  have  done  very  wrong  in  marrying.  We  are 
neither  of  us  happy."  He  waited  a  moment  as^jf  ex- 
pecting her  to  reply ;  but  she  remained  silwit  and  thought- 
ful. "  You,"  continued  Hastings,  "  love  another —  I  have 
long  known  it — he  is  worthy  of  your  best  affections." 
Again  he  paused,  as  if  wishing  her  to  speak,  but  she 
continued  silent,  with  her  eyes  resting  upon  the  ground. 
"  We  have  obeyed  the  commands  of  our  unfeeling  and 
unnatural  parents,"  resumed  he,  "  and  have  made  our- 
selves unhappy  for  the  remainder  of  our  li ves.  If  it 
were  to  do  over  again,  I  would  put  an  end  to  my  life, 
rather  than  consent  to  be  the  cause  of  your  misery.  I 
never  shall  love  my  father  again." 


OR,   LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  53 

"  William,"  said  Mrs.  Hastings,  in  a  voice  full  of 
sweetness,  "you  are  very  noble-hearted.  I  am  sorry, 
for  your  sake,  that  we  have  been  the  unwilling  instru- 
ments in  the  hands  of  others  to  accomplish  our  own 
unhappiness.  I  do  not  blame  you.  I  will  as  far  as 
possible  be  a  true  and  faithful  wife  to  you." 

There  was  so  much  gentleness  in  her  words,  and 
such  a  spirit  of  resignation  to  what  seemed  to  be  her 
fate,  that  Hastings  more  than  ever  regretted  that  he 
had  been  made  the  cause  of  her  sorrow. 

"  Ida,"  he  said,  when  she  had  finished,  "  I  appreciate 
your  feelings,  and  though  I  cannot  promise  you  the  love 
that  you  should  have  from  a  husband,  I  will  try  to  be 
kind  and  good  to  you." 

"  I  cannot  expect  more  than  that,"  answered  she,  ten- 
derly. 

"  Why,"  exclaimed  Hastings,  passionately,  "  did  we 
consent  to  the  domineering  tyrants !  They  knew  that 
they  were  sealing  our  unhappiness,  and  yet  they  per- 
sisted in  their  tyranny,  —  and  all,  that  the  family  of 
Charles  Linwood  might  be  allied  to  that  of  Richard 
Hastings !  I  shall  never  respect,  —  I  fear  I  shall  hate 
them  both,  as  long  as  I  live ! " 

"  Do  not  say  so,  William,  —  they  are  our  fathers,  — 
they  are  wiser  than  we." 

They  conversed  in  this  confidential  way  for  more 
than  an  hour.  Never  before  had  they  been  so  frank  and 
open-hearted  to  each  other.  A  sympathy  had  been 
awakened  between  them,  a  sympathy  which,  had  they 
been -strangers,  would  probably  have  ended  in  love. 
They  at  length  left  the  groves,  and  inspected  the  old 
castle  which  stands  near  them,  —  then,  after  crossing  the 
field  to  the  little  lake,  they  returned  to  the  city.  The 
two  families,  Linwood  and  Hastings,  had  been  travel- 
5* 


54  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

ling  in  Europe  for  more  than  a  year.  They  had  gone 
into  the  south  of  Ireland  to  visit  the  lakes  of  Killarney, 
and  the  many  other  celebrated  places  which  characterize 
that  part  of  the  island.  While  they  were  at  Cork,  the 
father  of  young  Hastings  received  intelligence  of  such 
a  nature  from  his  home  in  Mississippi,  as  to  require  his 
immediate  return  to  America.  He  could  not  leave, 
however,  until  he  had  seen  his  darling  object  consum- 
mated. He  at  once,  therefore,  used  all  his  influence, 
together  with  his  commands,  to  gain  the  consent  of  his 
son  to  the  marriage,  before  he  should  depart  for  home. 
He  had  gained  his  unwilling  consent,  —  he  had  wit- 
nessed their  union,  —  he  was  satisfied.  As  he  was  about 
starting  for  home,  he  advised  his  son  to  repair  to  Paris, 
as  soon  as  convenient,  and  remain  there  with  his  wife  for 
a  year  or  more.  He  hoped  that  the  gayety  of  that  me- 
tropolis of  fashion  would  at  length  dissipate  their 
unhappiness,  and  reconcile  them  to  their  marriage. 

Days  passed  on.  Hastings'  father  had  left  for  Amer- 
ica, in  company  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Linwood.  He  and 
his  wife  had  gone  to  the  lakes  of  Killarney.  They 
visited  every  point  of  interest  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
lakes,  and  as  much  as  possible  gave  their  minds  up  to 
the  charms  and  delights  of  the  picturesque  beauties  of 
these  world-wide  celebrities.  One  day,  when  they  had 
returned  to  their  hotel  from  a  visit  to  "  Tore  Water- 
fall "  and  "  Muckross  Abbey,"  a  waiter  handed  a  letter 
to  Mr.  Hastings,  directed  to  Ida  Linwood.  On  his 
arrival  at  the  hotel,  he  had  given  orders  to  have  any  let- 
ters with  that  address  that  might  come  there  sent  to 
his  rooms.  As  soon  as  he  saw  the  direction,  he  handed 
it  to  Mrs.  Hastings.  She  glanced  at  the  writing,  and  at 
once  recognizing  it,  turned  deadly  pale.  Hastings  saw 
her  agitation  and  said,  in  a  mild  voice :  — 

"  Ida,  compose  yourself  —  why  do  you  tremble  so  ?  " 


OK,   LIFE   BY  THE   WAT-SIDE.  55 

She  soon  became  more  calm,  and  said  :  — 
"  William,  do  you  know  whom  this  is  from  ?  " 
"  I  think  I  do,"  replied  he ;  "  but  why  don't  you  open 
and  read  it  ?  " 

"  Ought  I  to  read  it  now  ?  "  asked  she. 
"  Why  not  ?  "  said  Hastings.  "  What  harm  can  there 
be  in  your  reading  Mr.  Moulton's  letters  ?  He  is  in- 
capable of  a  dishonorable  action.  I  hope  you  do  not 
think  that  I  could  be  guilty  of  any  thing  so  unworthy  a 
gentleman  as  it  would  be  to  deny  you  the  privilege  of 
reading  it.  He  has  written  it  in  all  honor,  —  he  does  not 
know  of  your  marriage,  —  he  does  not  dream  of  it.  He 
is  your  rightful  lover,  —  I  do  not  object  to  your  reading 
his  letters."  Mrs.  Hastings  then  with  a  trembling  hand 
broke  the  seal,  and  read  a  letter,  from  which  I  extract 
the  following :  — 

"  DEAREST  IDA  :  —  I  am  sitting  here  under  the  grape- 
vine bower  of  your  old  home,  where  we  have  passed  so 
many  happy  hours.  Your  last  dear  and  precious  letter 
from  Paris  I  have  just  finished  reading  for  the  hun- 
dredth time.  All  its  sweet  words  recall  you  to  me  in 
imagination,  and  I  am  again  sitting  by  your  side  as  in 
times  past.  But  when  I  look  around  me,  I  am  reminded 
of  your  absence.  This  lovely  arbor,  which  now  shades 
me,  and  which  will  forever  be  associated  with  the  happy 
past,  has  gone  much  to  decay,  Ida.  The  flowers  which 
once  grew  so  lovely  under  your  care  have  faded  and 
died.  Your  spirit  is  wanting,  to  give  life  and  beauty  to 
what.,  I  see.  I  have  come  here  for  the  first  time  since 

we  parted.  I  have  just  returned  from College 

with  my  diploma,  and,  before  visiting  home,  I  have 
stopped  here  to  re-read  your  letter,  and  commune  with 
the  many  happy  by-gones  of  this  dear  old  place. 

"You  speak,  dearest  Ida,  of  the  many  fine  things 


56  THE  CROOKED  ELM  ; 

which  you  have  seen  in  that  most  beautiful  of  all  cities. 
You  write,  '  I  have  just  returned  from  a  visit  to  the 
Louvre,  where,  in  company  with  my  father  and  William 
Hastings,  I  have  passed  nearly  the  whole  morning  in 
admiring  some  beautiful  paintings  of  the  oldest  mas- 
ters.' 

"  I  am  glad,  Ida,  to  know  that  such  opportunities  for 
improvement  and  pleasure  are  afforded  you.  Yet  you 
have  mentioned  a  name  for  which  I  have  formed  a  dis- 
like, —  not  from  any  fault  of  him  who  bears  it,  but  .  .  . 

"  Since  I  commenced  this  letter,  I  laid  down  on  this 
bench,  where  we  have  so  often  sat,  and  fell  asleep.  I 
dreamed,  dearest  Ida,  that  you  were  again  with  me, — 
again  I  saw  those  happy  smiles,  —  again  I  listened  to 
those  sweet,  kind  words,  as  in  the  olden  time.  Happy 
memories !  Thrice,  and  forever  welcome !  It  is  in 
them  that  I  li ve  and  have  hope !  I  often  dream  of  you, 
Ida,  and  I  can  say  with  another,  — 

1  In  my  slumbers  I'm  blest,  for  thy  spirit  is  o'er, 
To  keep  watch  while  I  rest,  and  thy  presence  restore : 
I  awake,  and  alas !  the  glad  vision  has  flown, 
'T  was  only  a  dream,  I  'm  alone  —  all  alone  ! ' 


Forever  thine, 

ROBIN  MOULTON." 

"When  Mrs.  Hastings  finished  -  reading  it,  she  handed 
it  to  her  husband,  without  trying  to  conceal  the  tears 
that  were  stealing  down  her  cheeks. 

"  My  dear,"  said  he,  declining  to  take  it,  "  I  cannot 
read  it.  I  see  the  superscription,  and  can  judge  what 
are  its  contents."  "  To-morrow,"  continued  he,  "  we  are 
to  visit  the  «  Gap  of  Dunloe,'  and  as  we  shall  be  unac- 
companied by  any  one,  except  our  guide,  we  will  talk 


OR,   LIFE    BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  57 

more  on  this  subject;  until  then,  let  us  say  no  more 
about  it."  Thus  ended  the  subject  of  the  letter  for  that 
day.  The  ifext  day  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hastings  drove  to  the 
Gap  of  Dunloe.  When  they  had  gone  through  this 
mountain  pass,  and  were  walking  down  to  the  "  Upper 
Lake,"  a  distance  of  nearly  two  miles,  Hastings  said :  — 

"  Ida,  I  have  been  thinking  of  what  we  were  speaking 
yesterday.  You  must  not  cease  to  correspond  with  Mr. 
Moulton.  I  have  concluded  to  leave  for  the  continent 
in  a  few  days.  When  I  have  been  there  a  short  time 
I  will  report  myself  as  dead ;  and  so  ingeniously  will  I 
do  it,  that  no  one  will  think  of  discrediting  it.  You  then 
can  return  to  America  and  explain  all  to  your  lover,  and 
I  am  sure  he  will  continue  to  think  of  you  -as  he  ever 
has  done.  In  due  time  you  can  marry  him  and  be  happy, 
as  you  deserve  to  be.  You  may  rely  upon  my  honor, 
and  know  that  no  one  of  my  acquaintances  and  friends 
will  ever  have  reason  to  disbelieve  the  reports  which  I 
will  put  in  circulation  concerning  my  death." 

Mrs.  Hastings  could  not  think  of  having  her  husband 
leave  her.  She,  from  admiring  his  noble  nature,  already 
began  to  love  him.  Yes,  reader,  strange  as  it  may  ap- 
pear, she  had  begun  to  love  Hastings.  She  did  not 
know  the  fact,  —  she  still  believed  herself  devoted  to 
another.  To  his  proposition  she  answered :  — 

"  No,  William !  I  cannot  consent  to  part  with  you. 
You  are  noble-hearted,  and  I  fear  that  I  never  have 
appreciated  your  worth.  I  cannot  tell  why,  William," 
she  said,  looking  up  at  him  with  a  countenance  of  inex- 
pressible tenderness,  and  pressing  his  arm  gently  to  her, 
"  but  I  feel  that  I  should  be  very  unhappy  should  you 
leave  me.  You  will  not  go,  will  you  ? "  she  inquired, 
earnestly. 

"  But,"  replied  he,  "  your  heart  is  unalterably  another's. 


58  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

You  never  have  —  you  never  can  —  you  never  ought  to 
love  me  as  well,  as  truly,  as  you  love  Robin  Moulton." 

"  I  know  that,"  innocently  replied  she  -»-  "  Yet  you 
must  not  leave  me ;  —  I  shall  be  very  miserable  and 
unhappy  if  you  do."  • 

They  had  now  reached  the  beautiful  little  grove  at 
the  end  of  the  upper  lake,  and,  seating  themselves  in 
the  shade  near  the  little  cottage  that  stands  on  the 
bank,  they  talked  long  and  frankly  of  all  their  plans 
and  troubles. 

When  they  had  finished,  and  had  seated  themselves 
in  the  little  boat,  Hastings,  looking  troubled  and  un- 
happy, said  to  himself,  "  I  believe  I  have  unwittingly 
won  her  affections.  She  loves  me."  Then,  with  a 
countenance  which  seemed  to  look  far  into  the  future, 
he  continued  :  "  Moulton,  in  thy  horoscope  I  read  a 
life  of  trouble  and  disappointed  hopes.  And  am  I  not 
the  cause  ?  surely, 

'  There  's  a  divinity  shapes  our  ends, 
Rough  hew  them  as  we  will.' " 

They  were  gliding  along  on  the  smooth  surface  of 
the  upper  lake,  looking  out  on  the  high  and  abutting 
mountains,  when  Mrs.  Hastings,  in  a  low,  confidential 
tone,  said :  "  William,  it  would  not  be  right  for  me  to 
correspond  with  him  longer.  I  shall  never  write  him 
again." 

"  Consider,  my  dear,"  replied  he ;  "  when  he  wrote 
you  last,  he  knew  nothing  of  our  marriage.  You  should 
answer  that  letter  at  least ;  and  I  know  no  reason  why 
you  should  not  continue  to  write  him." 

"  But,"  replied  Mrs.  Hastings,  "  pleasant  as  it  would 
be  to  write  him,  I  am  now  your  wife,  and  must  comport 
myself  as  such.  Your  honw  demands  that  I  should 


OR,   LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  59 

not  write  him  again,  or  in  any  other  way  compromise 
you  as  a  gentleman." 

"  Well,  Ida,"  answered  Hastings,  "  do  in  this  as  you 
like ;  but  I  think  my  honor  is  already  so  much  compro- 
mised, if  indeed  I  ever  possessed  any,  that  a  letter  to 
one  so  worthy  as  he,  and  to  one  whom  I  have  so  much 
wronged,  will  do  me  no  injury,  neither  will  it  compro- 
mise my  character."  Mrs.  Hastings  thought  differently; 
and,  without  dreaming  that  she  loved  Moulton  less,  she 
resolved  never  to  write  to  him  again.  She  knew  that 
he  would  hear  of  her  marriage  on  her  father's  arrival 
home,  and  that  would  explain  to  him  her  silence.  In 
a  few  short  weeks  she  resolved,  voluntarily,  to  do  what 
she  would  have  thought  impossible  a  little  while  before. 
Thus  do  we  change  without  knowing  it.  Our  minds 
are  moulded  by  situation  and  circumstance ;  —  every 
day  they  are  receiving  new  impressions  —  new  ideas  are 
forming  —  new  hopes  are  awakened  —  new  loves  — 
new  hates  —  new  every  thing  —  and  thus  will  it  be  to 
the  end  of  time. 

They  had  been  at  Killarney  some  weeks,  and  were 
only  remaining  there  longer  to  witness  the  great  "  stag 
hunt,"  that  was  advertised  to  come  off  on  the  twenty- 
ninth  of  September.  It  was  to  inaugurate  the  hunting 
season.  The  lord-lieutenant  of  Ireland  was  expected 
to  be  present,  to  give  eclat  to  the  occasion.  For  days 
and  weeks  before  the  time  appointed,  nothing  else  was 
talked  of.  The  hunt  —  the  hunt  was  in  everybody's 
mouth.  Parties  of  ladies  and  gentlemen,  who  did  not 
intend^  joining  in  the  chase,  were  organizing  and  prepar- 
ing to  witness  the  sport  from  the  lakes.  Boats  were  being 
fitted  up  and  gayly  decorated,  —  all  was  bustle,  hurry, 
and  excitement.  To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hastings  the  specta- 
cle promised  to  be  a  novel  one.  They  had  witnessed 
several  fox-hunts,  steeple-chases,  etc.,  but  never  a  stag- 


60  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

hunt,  —  much  less  an  annual  one,  to  which  the  nobility 
and  gentry  of  the  whole  kingdom  would  repair.  The 
long  looked  for  day  at  length  dawned  upon  the  little 
village  of  Killarney.  Ireland's  governor  was  there,  to- 
gether with  hundreds  of  officers  and  country  gentlemen. 
All  was  life,  glitter,  and  gayety.  Young  men  and  old, 
in  their  red  coats  and  hunting-caps,  were  riding  here 
and  there  about  the  village,  and  leaving  in  small  parties 
for  the  hunting  ground.  Some  of  Ireland's  and  Eng- 
land's most  lovely  daughters  were  there  too,  mounted 
upon  their  blooded  hunters,  and,  with  the  grace  and  bold- 
ness of  a  Die  Vernon,  were  galloping  away,  chaperoned 
by  gay  gentlemen,  to  join  in  the  general  and  glorious 
chase.  A  little  while,  and  they  had  assembled  on  the 
the  ground,  the  master  of  the  hounds,  the  whipper-in, 
and  all.  The  stag,  beautifully  decorated  with  ribbons, 
was  let  loose.  He  bounded  away  a  few  hundred  yards, 
and  then  stopping,  threw  his  head  proudly  aloft,  and 
turned  it  with  its  large  antlers  hurriedly  from  side  to 
side,  as  if  to  choose  his  course.  A  moment,  and  only  a 
moment,  did  he  stand ;  then  with  an  agile  bound  he 
sped  away  across  the  fields,  —  looking  the  personifica- 
tion of  grace  and  pride,  —  and  was  soon  out  of  sight. 
The  dogs  were  then  let  loose,  and  the  general  chase 
commenced.  Away  they  went  at  the  first  yelp  of  the 
hounds,  —  horses,  riders,  and  all  in  hot  pursuit.  Some 
of  the  maddened  steeds  unseated  their  riders  at  the  first 
fence,  and  galloped  wildly  across  the  fields,  —  others, 
too  excited  for  careful  fencing,  fell  in  the  first  ditch ; 
but  the  masses,  —  the  army  of  red-coats,  galloped  swiftly 
on,  —  leaping  hedges,  ditches,  and  walls,  and  following 
closely  the  hounds  and  the  whipper-in. 

The  stag,  at  length,  wearied  and  too  closely  pursued 
for  his  personal  comfort,  made  for  the  water.  Antici- 
pating this,  the  lakes  were  dotted  with  beautiful  boats 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE  WAY-SIDE.  61 

filled  with  gay  and  joyous  parties,  anxiously  looking 
out  in  the  direction  where  they  heard  the  deep  baying 
of  the  dogs.  Soon  they  saw  him  bounding  down  the 
side  of  the  mountain  towards  them.  Up  went  their 
shouts  and  cheers,  amid  the  waving  of  handkerchiefs 
and  the  clapping  of  hands.  He  soon  plunged  into  the 
lake,  and  swam  rapidly  to  the  other  side,  leaving  the 
dogs  far  behind.  The  chase  was  nearly  finished ;  for, 
tired  and  exhausted,  the  stag,  after  a  little  while,  kept 
in  the  water  as  his  only  hope  of  safety.  The  hunters 
soon  came  up,  and  amid  the  most  intense  excitement, 
the  proud  stag  was  captured.  The  dogs  were  called 
off,  and  his  life  was  saved.  The  day's  sport  had  ended, 
and  spectators  and  hunters  returned  to  the  village. 

Among  the  many  visitors  at  Killarney  was  a  young 
Englishman  by  the  name  of  Collingwood.  He  had 
come  there  with  his  wife  and  little  boy,  three  years  old, 
to  witness  the  hunt.  Imagine  his  pleasant  surprise 
when  he  met  his  old  friend  and  college  mate,  William 
Hastings.  He  had  been  educated  in  America  by  his 
parents,  and  while  at  college  had  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Hastings,  and,  though  two  classes  in  advance 
of  him,  a  strong  attachment  had  sprung  up  between 
them,  and  a  correspondence  had  been  kept  up  for  some 
time;  but,  like  most  correspondences  of  the  kind,  it 
gradually  died  out,  while  they  only  retained  kindly  re- 
membrances of  each  other.  Their  meeting  was  there- 
fore cordial,  and  while  they  were  seated  together  wit- 
nessing the  sports,  their  whilom  acquaintance  and  at- 
tachment for  each  other  were  renewed.  Old  times  had 
been  talked  over,  and  before  the  day  closed,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Hastings  had  promised  to  visit  Mr.  Collingwood  at 
his  country-seat  in  England,  after  which  Mr.  Colling- 
wood and  family  were  to  accompany  them  to  the  con- 
tinent. 

6 


CHAPTER    VI. 


ABOUT  a  year  and  a  half  had  elapsed  since  Hastings' 
marriage,  during  which  time  he  with  his  wife,  in  com- 
pany with  Collingwood  and  his  family,  had  visited 
much  of  Europe.  They  were  in  England.  Colling- 
wood had  concluded  to  accompany  his  friend  to  Amer- 
ica, and  settle  there  for  life.  All  arrangements  had 
been  made  preparatory  to  leaving,  and  the  two  families 
took  passage  for  New  York.  An  addition  had  been 
made  to  the  party,  —  Hastings  was  the  father  of  a  little 
girl,  only  a  few  months  old.  When  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hast- 
ings turned  their  faces  toward  home,  need  I  say  that 
they  looked  less  happy  than  they  had  done  since  a  few 
weeks  after  their  marriage.  Old  associations  crowded 
upon  the  minds  of  each  —  earlier  days  were  recalled  — 
days  indelibly  enstamped  on  memory.  Mrs.  Hastings 
thought  of  him  whom  she  would  probably  meet  on  her 
arrival  in  Mississippi.  All  her  past  pledges,  all  her 
broken  vows,  filled  her  mind  and  made  her  anxious  and 
unhappy.  Him  whom  she  once  adored,  idolized,  she 
now  most  feared  to  meet.  How  could  she  look  upon  one 
whom  she  had  so  grievously  wronged !  These  were  the 
agonizing,  torturing  thoughts,  that  weighed  upon  her 
conscience  and  afflicted  her  very  soul.  After  a  long 
and  anxious  passage  they  arrived  safely  in  New  York, 
where  they  remained  a  few  days  before  going  South. 

(62) 


THE  CROOKED  ELM.  63 

An  attractive  theatrical  bill  induced  'them  to  go  one 
evening  to  Niblo's.  They  had  seated  themselves  a  little 
to  one  side  of  the  centre  of  the  room,  where  they  had  a 
nne  view  both  of  the  stage  and  the  audience.  The 
brilliantly  lit  house  was  filled  to  overflowing.  The  cur- 
tain closing  the  first  act  had  just  dropped,  when  Mrs. 
Hastings,  taking  her  opera-glass,  glanced  her  eyes  around 
upon  the  gay  assemblage.  At  length  they  rested  upon 
one  individual  face  in  one  of  the  side  boxes.  She 
looked  a  moment,  —  she  caught  the  black  eyes  of  him 
at  whom  she  was  gazing,  and,  uttering  a  suppressed 
shriek,  she  was  carried  fainting  from  the  house.  If  the 
thought  of  returning  home  had  been  unpleasant  to  her 
heretofore,  it  now  made  her  miserable.  Wh^t  reproach, 
what  defiance  shot  from  those  black  eyes,  which  she 
had  looked  into  but  for  one  moment.  Her  whole  life 
passed  rapidly  before  her  in  review.  She  saw  no  happi- 
ness or  consolation  in  it  all. 

Time  passed  on,  and  they  had  all  arrived  at  their 
southern  home.  I  have  heretofore  said,  that  Charles 
Linwood  and  Richard  Hastings  were  old  friends.  Their 
plantations  joined,  and  their  large  and  beautiful  country 
residences  were  only  two  or  three  miles  apart,  and  were 
located  upon  the  banks  of  the  same  little  river.  All  the 
comforts  of  affluence  surrounded  them.  They  had 
lived  there  from  childhood,  and  being  men  of  cultivated 
minds,  improved  by  study  and  travel,  they  had  displayed 
more  than  ordinary  taste  in  beautifying  and  adorning 
their  grounds.  Beautiful  groves  surrounded  and  shaded 
their  .mansions.  There  were  summer-houses,  grottos, 
arbors  of  trees,  and  shady  walks,  —  in  short,  all  that  go 
to  make  a  country  home  pleasant.  Hastings  and  his 
party  were  stopping  with  his  father.  They  had  been 
at  home  nearly  three  weeks.  Mrs.  Hastings  had  learned 
that  Robin  Moulton  had  not  been  heard  of  for  more 


64  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

than  a  year.  Strange  reports  had  been  circulated  about 
him.  When  he  had  first  heard  of  Hastings'  marriage,  it 
was  said  by  some  that  he  had  become  deranged.  Others 
reported  that  he  was  in  a  madhouse  in  New  York. 
Nothing  definite,  however,  had  been  heard  of  him  since 
he  had  so  mysteriously  disappeared.  His  parents  had 
both  died ;  and  the  old  Irish  nurse,  who  had  always  lived 
in  the  family,  had  gone  no  one  knew  where.  She  had 
not  been  seen  or  heard  of  for  many  months.  It  was 
believed  by  some  that  the  parents  of  young  Moulton 
had  died  from  the  trouble  and  unhappiness  growing 
out  of  disappointed  hopes,  which  they  had  long  cher- 
ished respecting  their  son.  Though  all  this  was  un- 
pleasant n«ws  to  Mrs.  Hastings,  she  nevertheless  felt  a 
relief  in  the  thought  that  she  probably  would  never 
meet  Moulton  again.  She  knew  that  some  of  the  re- 
ports were  untrue,  especially  the  one  respecting  his 
being  in  a  madhouse;  yet  she  thought  that  he  never 
would  return  to  Mississippi  again  to  live,  and  that 
thought  gave  her  a  negative  happiness. 

One  afternoon,  she,  with  her  child  and  servant,  a  black 
woman,  visited  her  father's  house,  and  remained  there 
longer  than  she  had  intended.  The  sun  was  going 
down  when  she  set  out  to  return.  The  path  that  led 
from  Mr.  Linwood's  to  Mr.  Hastings'  crossed  the  fields, 
and  followed  the  channel  of  the  river.  The  distance 
was  such  that  it  was  dusk  before  she  had  gone  half 
of  the  way.  She  was  walking  rapidly  on  beside  her 
servant,  who  was  carrying  her  child,  when  a  man 
stepped  from  the  thick  shade  of  some  trees  which 
stood  close  to  the  river,  and  confronted  them.  This 
sudden  apparition  caused  Mrs.  Hastings  to  utter  a 
shriek  of  terror.  She  stood  paralyzed  and  unable  to 
speak,  as  she  gazed  wildly  at  the  dark  object  before  her. 
The  servant  had  dropped  the  child  in  her  fright  on  the 


OK,  LIFE   BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  65 

grass,  and  was  running  shrieking  away.  The  dark 
object  advanced  near  to  where  Mrs.  Hastings  stood,  and 
said,  in  an  excited  tone  of  voice :  — 

"  Ida,  I  have  met  you  at  last.  Long  and  patiently 
have  I  waited  to  see  one  who  could  so  basely  betraj 
me."  Mrs.  Hastings  remained  standing,  unable  to  utter 
a  word,  or  attempt  an  escape.  She  at  once  recognized 
the  voice  of  the  speaker,  and  even  in  fhat  dark  and 
lonely  spot,  it  had  a  wild  charm,  which,  though  it  fright- 
ened, yet  spellbound  her.  Moulton  stopped  when 
within  a  few  feet  of  her,  and  continued  addressing  her. 
"  Look  at  me,  Ida,  and  see  what  you  have  made  me ! 
Once  I  loved  you!  Once  I  was  happy  in  thinking  that 
you  loved  me  in  return !  I  believed  what  ygu  told  me ! 
I  thought  you  honest  and  truthful !  But  how  basely  — 
unfeelingly — fiendishly ,  did  you  deceive  me!  Oh, 
that  such  hypocrisy  should  be  clothed  with  so  much 
power  to  deceive !  The  time  was  when  I  could  have 
gone  through  fire  to  serve  you !  Then  I  was  ambitious 
to  be  learned  and  great,  that  I  might  make  you  happy! 
I  battled  long  and  hard  against  poverty  for  this  purpose 
alone.  Ah1  my  bright  hopes  have  fled !  You  are  the 
cause !  False,  base,  and  treacherous  woman !  You  see 
what  your  treachery  has  brought  me  to !  I  am  ruined, 
—  desperate,  —  careless  of  life, —  without  hope  here,  or 
hereafter !  "  As  he  spoke  this  last  sentence,  Mrs.  Hast- 
ings uttered  a  cry  of  "help,"  and  started  to  fly  from 
him;  but  she  was  immediately  stopped  by  Moulton. 
As  he  seized  her  he  continued  wildly :  — 

"  Igla,  you  have  ruined  me ;  and,  while  I  am  destined 
to  walk  the  earth  an  outcast,  it  shall  not  be  with  the 
consciousness  that  you  are  living  happily  with  another. 
No !  I  will  carry  destruction  and  mourning  to  the  doors 
of  those  who  have  heartlessly  and  basely  ruined  me 
6* 


66  THE   CKOOKED   ELM; 

forever !  "  As  he  said  this,  a  fiendish  joy  seemed  to  ani- 
mate him ;  and,  plunging  a  stiletto  into  her  side,  she  fell 
at  his  feet,  saying :  — 

"  Robin,  I  have  grievously  wronged  you.  It  is  but 
just  that  I  die.  I  forgive  you  for  this  deed,  —  so  may 
God  in  heaven ! "  —  Here  muttering  in  a  faint  voice, 
"  My  child  —  my  —  "  she  breathed  her  last. 

As  soon  as  Moulton  heard  her  sweet  voice  he  relented. 
It  recalled  feelings  that  had  long  been  dormant.  He 
lifted  her  lifeless  body  from  the  ground,  and  tried  to  re- 
store it  to  consciousness.  But  when  he  saw  that  she 
was  dead,  he  gave  vent  to  his  feelings  in  bitter  sobs. 
For  the  moment,  he  remembered  her  only  as  his  idolized 
Ida,  —  his  Confiding,  loving  Ida,  whom  he  had  so  often 
met  in  the  grape-vine  bower,  and  talked  to  of  love  and 
a  life  of  happiness.  The  great  deep  of  his  heart  was 
convulsed,  —  he  mourned  the  deed  which  he  had  just 
committed.  He  had  taken  the  life  of  one  whom  he 
loved  more  than  all  things  else  beside.  He  pressed  her 
to  his  bosom  for  a  moment,  and  then,  laying  her  on  the 
grass,  kneeled  by  her  side  and  hid  his  face  in  his  hands. 
"  Oh  ! "  exclaimed  he,  "  that  you  had  known  how  I  loved 
you,  how  I  have  lived  for  you,  and  you  only !  "  Then, 
as  if  remembering  suddenly  the  cause  that  had  led  to 
the  committal  of  the  deed,  he  said :  "  Would  that  you 
had  been  just  and  true  to  me !  Had  I  not  just  grounds 
for  this,  I  were  indeed  a  villain- ! "  He  felt,  with  Othello, 
that— 

" had  she  been  true, 

If  Heaven  would  make  me  such  another  world, 
Of  one  entire  and  perfect  crysolite, 
I  'd  not  have  sold  her  for  it" 

He  clasped  her  hands  in  his,  and,  uttering  a  deep, 
heart-rending  groan,  continued  to  kneel  over  her  for  a 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  67 

moment ;  then,  as  if  delirious  and  wild  with  contending 
emotions,  he  clasped  her  in  his  arms,  ran  hurriedly 
down  the  bank,  and,  wading  a  little  way  into  the  stream, 
laid  her  body  gently  in  the  water.  Oh,  what  agony  of 
soul  was  in  that  moment !  Guilty,  wretched  man  !  His 
heart  shed  tears  of  blood,  as  he  parted  with  her  forever ! 
He  stood  gazing  at  her  dark  form  a  little  while  as  it 
moved  slowly  away,  then  returning  hastily  to  the  child, 
which  still  lay  on  the  grass  where  the  nurse  had  dropped 
it,  he  picked  it  up  and  hurriedly  walked  a  few  hundred 
yards  down  the  river  to  where  a  little  boat  was  fastened. 
He  loosed  it,  and  jumping  in,  laid  the  child  in  the  bot- 
tom of  the  boat,  and  moved  rapidly  down  the  stream. 
He  continued  to  pull  hard  at  the  oars  until  late  at  night, 
when  running  into  a  little  creek  he  got  out  of  the  boat, 
and  left  it  to  float  down  with  the  current.  All  was 
thick  darkness ;  but  he  seemed  to  be  acquainted  with  the 
locality,  for  after  climbing  a  steep  hill  covered  with 
trees  and  bushes,  he  walked  at  a  rapid  pace  through  the 
dense  forest,  carrying  the  child  in  his  arms.  He  con- 
tinued to  walk  on  over  hills  and  vales  until  nearly  morn- 
ing, when,  coming  to  a  small  stream  lying  between  high 
and  rocky  banks,  he  followed  it  up  for  two  or  three 
miles.  He  then  climbed  up  over  some  rough  and 
craggy  rocks,  and  removing  a  few  loose  stones,  entered 
a  dark  cave.  When  he  had  gone  a  few  rods  in,  he 
turned  into  a  side  passage,  where  he  saw  a  dim  and 
glimmering  light,  and  soon  entered  an  apartment  in 
which  there  was  a  tallow  candle  lighted.  An  old  woman 
lay  on  a  mattress  in  the  corner.  She  started  "up  when 
Moulton  entered,  and  said  :  — 

"  Robin,  is  it  you,  lad  ?  "  The  child  then  commenced 
crying ;  and  she,  looking  startled  and  inquiringly  into 
Moulton's  face,  exclaimed,  "  Holy  Vargin !  and  what 
have  you  here,  sure  ?  " 


68  THE  CROOKED   ELM  • 

She  continued  anxiously  looking  into  Moulton's  face, 
as  if  to  gather  from  it  an  explanation  of  what  she  saw ; 
but  she  looked  in  vain.  His  countenance  wore  a  blank, 
vacant  expression.  He  seemed  not  to  know  where  he 
was.  His  mind  was  not  there. 

"  Sure,  and  I  know  all,  —  he  is  not  right  here,  poor 
boy,"  she  said,  touching  her  forehead.  She  then  snuffed 
the  candle,  and  walking  close  up  to  Moulton  looked  at 
the  child  in  his  arms. 

"Robin,  darlint,  what  have  you  here?  Where  did 
you  come  by  this  wee  baby  ?  "  He  did  not  answer  her, 
but  continued  looking  vacantly  about  him.  The  old 
woman  again  muttered :  — 

"  Sure  he  '§  crazy.  He  is  not  himself  any  more  since 
his  poor  father  and  mither  died."  She  took  the  child 
from  Moulton's  arms,  and  seating  herself  by  some  coals 
of  fire,  commenced  examining  it. 

"Sure,"  said  she,  "and  it's  a  girl  baby.  What  a 
swate  cratur!  Where  could  the  lad  have  found  it? 
May  be  the  wee  thing  is  hungry."  As  she  said  this  she 
got  up,  and,  going  to  a  shelf  of  natural  rock,  took  from 
it  a  bowl  of  milk,  and  pouring  some  of  it  into  a  tin  cup 
placed  it  on  the  coals  to  warm.  Moulton,  as  yet,  had 
not  spoken  a  word.  He  continued  walking  about  the 
room,  as  if  in  search  of  something  he  could  not  find. 
There  was  a  certain  vacant,  wild  expression  in  his  eyes, 
which  might  have  led  one  not  so  well  acquainted  with 
him  as  the  old  woman  was  to  have  thought  him  de- 
ranged. She  evidently  believed  him  to  be,  as  she  said, 
"not  right  in  his  head."  She  had  known  him  ever 
since  his  birth,  and  loved  him  as  fondly  as  a  mother 
loves  her  child.  She  knew  him  only  as  the  generous, 
noble  boy,  —  the  child  that  she  had  nursed,  —  the  youth, 
who,  when  away  at  school,  had  always  a  kind  word  to 
send  to  Aunt  Judy.  Her  love  for  him  now  was  even 


OR,   LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  69 

greater  than  it  had  ever  been.  She  felt  that  she  must 
protect  the  "  poor  boy,"  as  she  called  him.  And,  though 
she  did  whatever  he  asked  her  to  do,  and  in  every 
respect  permitted  herself  to  be  governed  by  his  wishes, 
she  nevertheless  fancied  that  she  was  taking  care  of 
him.  In  all  tilings,  she  sought  only  to  please  him.  His 
slightest  wish  was  her  law.  Moulton  at  length  seate^ 
himself  on  a  little  stool,  and  turning  his  eyes  gazed 
thoughtfully  into  the  fire.  He  remained  for  nearly  an 
hour  without  moving,  and  then  turning  to  the  old  woman 
he  asked :  — 

"  Aunt  Judy,  does  any  one  know  of  your  being  here  ?  " 
"  Sure,  and  why  do  you  ask  that,  honey  ?    I  think  not, 
Robin." 

"  Has  no  one  seen  you  go  across  the  fields  ?  " 
"  No.  I  have  done  as  you  told  me,  sure.  And  do 
you  think  Aunt  Judy  would  go  out  in  the  daytime, 
when  you  told  her  not  to  ?  I  always  milk  the  cows 
afore  day.  But,  Robin,  where  did  you  come  by  this  ?  " 
"  I  found  it  lying  in  a  field."  The  child  commenced 
crying  again,  and  Moulton,  fixing  his  eyes  intently  upon 
it,  muttered  :  "  It  is  like  them  both.  It  shall  not  live. 
I  will  not  have  her  image  in  the  person  of  another  to 
torment  me  as  I  drag  out  the  remainder  of  my  life. 
No,  it  shall  die ! "  All  his  jealous,  revengeful  feelings 
seemed  to  be  again  awakened,  and  he  continued  to  mut- 
ter his  dark  thoughts  of  vengeance.  "  I  will  deprive 
him  of  happiness  who  so  unfeelingly  and  dishonorably 
won  her  from  me.  This,  his  child,  shall  die !  "  Fierce, 
deadly  hate  flashed  from  his  eyes,  and  springing  from 
his  seat,  he  commenced  walking  from  one  side  of  the 
room  to  the  other,  with  a  quick  and  hurried  pace.  He 
soon  seated  himself  again  by  the  fire,  however,  and  fell 
into  gloomy  thought.  The  old  woman  went  about  the 
room,  preparing  a  plain  breakfast.  She  baked  a  cake 


70  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

in  the  ashes,  made  of  corn-meal,  and  placing  it,  with  a 
bowl  of  milk,  on  a  large  stone  slab,  she  said :  — 

"  Honey,  dear,  you  must  be  hungry,  and  it 's  a  poor 
breakfast  I've  got  for  you,  sure."  Moulton  did  not 
heed  what  she  said,  but  still  sat  looking  into  the  fire. 
She  then,  putting  her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  con- 
Unued : — 

"  Robin,  the  milk  is  on  the  table ;  surely  you  want 
something  to  ate,  lad." 

"  No,  I  am  not  hungry,"  replied  he,  abstractedly.  She 
could  not  persuade  him  to  eat  any  thing ;  which  of  it- 
self took  away  her  own  appetite,  and  the  breakfast  was 
cleared  away  untouched  by  either. 

"  Aunt  Judy,"  said  Moulton,  finally, "  we  must  prepare 
to  leave  this  place." 

"  And  where  will  we  go,  Robin  ?  " 

«  To  New  Orleans,"  replied  he. 

"  To  New  Orleans ! "  said  Aunt  Judy,  surprisedly. 

"  Yes,  we  must  leave  in  a  few  days,"  he  said,  thought- 
fully. He  then  said,  in  a  low  voice  which  she  did  not 
hear — "We  must  remain  here  a  week  or  two  yet. 
They  will  be  searching  for  me.  I  must  not  stir  abroad 
until  the  excitement  has  died  away  somewhat." 

They  continued  in  the  cave  for  nearly  three  weeks, 
never  going  out  except  after  dark,  and  then  only  to  milk 
the  cows  of  a  neighboring  planter.  Their  hiding-place 
was  secure,  —  thick,  dense  woods  surrounded  the  spot. 
Aunt  Judy  could  learn  nothing  more  from  Moulton  con- 
cerning the  'child  than  that  he  had  found  it  lying  in  a 
field.  She  felt  troubled  about  it,  and  would  have  gladly 
restored  it  to  its  parents,  had  she  known  who  or  where 
they  were.  Early  one  night  Moulton  and  his  old  nurse 
left  the  cave  and  started  in  company  through  the  thick 
woods.  The  child,  comfortably  wrapped  up,  was  in 
the  old  woman's  arms.  Moulton  could  not,  as  yet, 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  71 

make  up  his  mind  to  destroy  it,  although  he  had  several 
times  resolved  that  it  should  not  live.  They  travelled 
on  in  company  until  nearly  morning,  when  they  stopped, 
and  lay  concealed  until  nightfall  again.  Thus  did  they 
continue  their  journey,  travelling  only  in  the  night,  for 
fear  of  detection.  Often  were  they  hungry ;  many  times 
did  they  lay  all  night  in  the  open  wood,  and  several 
times  they  were  in  fear,  lest  the  crying  of  the  child 
would  lead  to  their  discovery.  The  old  woman  could 
not  tell  why  they  should  travel  in  so  stealthy  and  mys- 
terious, a  way,  yet  she  did  as  Moulton  wished,  and  in- 
stinctively feared,  not  for  herself,  but  for  the  safety  of 
her  "  darlint  boy."  They  at  last  reached  the  Mississippi 
River,  and  following  it  down  a  few  miles  came  to  a 
landing,  where,  after  waiting  a  few  hours,  they  went  on 
board  a  boat  bound  to  New  Orleans.  On  their  arrival 
they  procured  lodgings  in  an  obscure  part  of  the  city, 
and  late  that  night,  Moulton,  putting  the  child  into  a 
basket  and  covering  it  up,  carried  it  to  the  other  side  of 
the  city,  where,  after  watching  his  opportunity,  he  left  it 
at  the  door  of  a  large  house.  This  he  did  believing 
that  it  would  when  found,  be  placed  in  the  Foundling 
Asylum,  where  he  should  never  see  it  again.  As  soon 
as  he  had  left  it  he  hurried  back  to  Aunt  Judy,  and, 
telling  her  that  he  had  restored  the  child  to  its  parents, 
bade  her  prepare  to  leave  the  lodgings  where  they  were 
stopping  at  once.  She  did  as  ordered,  and  on  the  next 
morning  they  in  company  set  out  for  New  York. 

Mrs.  Hastings'  servant,  when  she  dropped  the  child, 
ran,  half  dead  with  fright,  towards  the  house,  and  after 
much  puffing  and  blowing  rushed  wildly  into  the  apart- 
ment where  Hastings  and  his  friend  Collingwood  were 
seated,  engaged  in  conversation.  After  several  inef- 
fectual efforts  to  speak,  she  finally  delivered  herself  of 
the  following  intelligent  exclamation :  — 


72  THE  CKOOKED   ELM  ; 

"  O  massa  Hastings !  O  massa !  massa ! "  and  then 
went  off  into  a  swoon.  They  were  justly  alarmed  at 
this  exhibition  of  Miss  Ebony.  Hastings  sprang  up, 
and  getting  a  bucket  of  water  threw  its  contents  into 
her  face,  which  soon  partially  brought  back  her  scattered 
senses  again.  He  then  gleaned  enough  from  her  dis- 
jointed exclamations  to  believe  that  something  had 
happened  to  his  wife  and  child ;  and,  setting  out  with 
Collingwood,  they  ran  across  the  fields,  following  the 
path  leading  to  Mr.  Linwood's.  They  saw  no  one,  and 
they  continued  running  until  they  reached  Mr.  Lin- 
wood's  house.  Learning  that  Mrs.  Hastings  had  left 
there  early  in  the  evening  for  home,  they  procured  lights 
and  followed  the  path  back  slower,  making  diligent 
search  on  both  sides.  Mr.  Linwood  accompanied  them, 
together  with  many  of  his  slaves. 

Mrs.  Hastings'  servant,  having  at  length  wholly  re- 
covered her  lost  wits,  mustered  several  of  her  own  color, 
and,  with  young  Hastings'  father,  set  out  for  the  spot 
where  she  said  she  had  seen  the  "O/e  Feller?  The 
two  parties,  now  numbering  nearly  a  hundred,  soon 
met ;  and  after  a  diligent  search  they  found  where  the 
grass  was  saturated  with  blood.  Their  worst  fears 
were  confirmed.  Lamentations  were  now  heard  as  they 
ran  wildly  across  the  fields  and  along  the  banks  of  the 
river,  looking  anxiously  for  the  missing  ones.  The  in- 
telligence soon  spread,  and  hundreds  were  on  the 
ground,  mostly  negroes,  assisting  in  the  search.  The 
body  of  Mrs.  Hastings  was  found  in  the  river  about 
two  o'clock  that  night.  They  continued  to  search  for 
the  child  for  several  days,  but,  I  need  not  say,  without 
finding  it 

I  will  not  pretend  to  describe  the  suffering  and  trouble 
of  the  husband  and  father,  growing  out  of  this  sudden 
bereavement.  Neither  will  I  relate  the  exaggerated 


OR,   LIFE   BY   TIIE   WAY-SIDE.  73 

rumors  which  soon  went  abroad,  to  be  discussed  and 
talked  over  by  all  who  had  witnessed  or  heard  any  thing 
of  what  had  taken  place.  All  believed  that  the  mother 
and  child  had  been  murdered.  Hastings  also  thought 
that  his  child  had  been  killed,  and  that  its  body  had 
floated  down  in  the  current  of  the  river.  He  once  or 
twice  thought  of  Moulton  in  connection  with  his  wife's 
death,  but  all  his  recollections  of  him  were  such  that  he 
could  not  believe  him  guilty  of  any  thing  so  criminal. 

"  He  was  generous,  high-minded,  and  noble,"  said  he 
to  himself.  "  I  will  not  think  that  he  could  be  guilty  of 
any  thing  so  inhuman."  His  wife's  death,  and  the  loss 
of  his  child,  were  set  down  as  mysteries  that  he  could 
not  solve.  He  loved  his  child  with  all  the  fondness  of 
his  nature.  It  was  his  idol  —  his  all  of  happiness.  He 
never  had  loved  Mrs.  Hastings  as  he  might  have  loved, 
yet  he  appreciated  her  many  virtues.  He  thought  that 
she  had  been  victimized  in  marrying  him,  and  this  of 
itself  induced  him  to  indulge  her  every  wish.  He  was 
kind  and  good  to  her,  —  but  his  child  he  loved,  —  he 
doted  upon  it,  and  was  happy.  Its  loss  made  him 
wretched. 

Tired  of  a  place  where  he  had  experienced  so  much 
trouble,  Hastings  persuaded  his  friend  Collingwood  to 
go  further  north.  They  therefore  left  Mississippi,  and 
settled  in  Virginia.  Hastings  remained  a  guest  in  his 
friend's  family  for  more  than  a  year,  when  he  left  them, 
and,  going  to  New  York,  commenced  the  practice  of  his 
profession. 

Wkh  this  earlier  history  of  William  Hastings,  I  will 
now  return  to  a  point  where  I  left  him  in  a  previous 
chapter. 

7 


CHAPTER    VII. 


A  FEW  days  after  the  dinner-party  at  Mr.  Belmonte's, 
described  in  a  previous  chapter,  Mrs.  Belmonte  was  in 
her  dressing-room  completing  her  toilet,  preparatory  to 
driving  out.  Her  carriage  had  been  ordered,  and  she 
was  just  tying  on  her  bonnet,  when  the  door-bell  rang. 

"  I  do  wish,"  said  Mrs.  Belmonte  to  herself,  when  she 
heard  it,  "  that  I  could  be  left  to  myself  for  a  single 
moment.  This  is  the  third  call  I  have  had  since  I  com- 
menced dressing.  Well,  I  will  see  no  one  before  going 
out,  that 's  positive !  I  will  send  word  to  her  or  him,  or 
whatever  the  sex  may  be,  that  I  am  unwell,  or  engaged, 
01  — "  At  this  point  in  her  soliloquy  her  servant  entered, 
and  handed  her  a  card.  A  slight  flush  immediately 
tinged  her  cheeks,  and  her  looks  of  displeasure  were  dis- 
placed by  a  pleasing  smile. 

"  Show  the  gentleman  into  the  drawing-room,  Bessy, 
and  tell  Mm  that  I  will  soon  be  down,"  said  Mrs.  Bel- 
monte. 

"  Yes  'm,"  said  Bessy,  as  she  turned  and  walked  away. 
As  she  descended  the  stairs  she  muttered,  "  Lor  bless 
us  !  what's  got  into  Missis'  head?  She  tells  me  say  she 

am  disemgaged  to  Mr.  and  to  Missis ,  and 

now  she  am  gwine  to  see  dis  here  gem'man,  when  her 
bonnet  am  all  on,  jis  ready  to  get  into  de  carriage! 

(74) 


THE   CROOKED   ELM.  75 

Well,  white  folks  knows  der  business  better  nor  culled 
persons,  dat  am  sartin." 

Bessy's  woolly  head  was  evidently  in  a  perplexed 
state  at  this  turn  of  affairs,  but  like  an  obedient  servant 
she  did  as  told  by  her  mistress. 

Mrs.  Belmonte  took  off  her  bonnet,  and  smoothing 
her  hair  a  little,  descended  to  the  drawing-room,  where 
she  met  Mr.  Hastings.  They  were  both  a  little  embar- 
rassed at  this  second  meeting,  without  knowing  why. 
Mr.  Hastings  rose,  and  stepping  forward  bowed  grace- 
fully, as  she  advanced  and  extended  her  hand  to  him  in 
an  easy  and  somewhat  friendly  manner.  When  they 
were  seated  and  the  usual  compliments  over,  Mr.  Hast- 
ings said :  — 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  looking  so  well,  Mrs.  Bel- 
monte. I  had  expected  to  see  you  differently,  as  your 
servant  told  me  at  the  door  that  she  thought  you  were 
too  unwell  to  see  me." 

"  Did  she  ?  "  replied  Mrs.  Belmonte.  "  The  officious 
stupid !  I  was  only  going  out,  and  had  refused  to  see 
one  or  two  who  had  called  while  I  was  preparing.  But 
I  had  concluded  to  postpone  going  until  to-morrow,  be- 
fore you  came,  so  there  was  no  necessity  of  reporting 
myself  an  invalid  longer  to  my  friends." 

This  Mrs.  Belmonte  said  laughingly,  although  she 
felt  a  little  piqued  to  think  that  her  servant  had  been  so 
officious.  For,  much  as  she  was  pleased  to  see  Mr. 
Hastings,  she  was  not  willing  that  he  should  think  that 
she  would  postpone  a  drive  for  the  pleasure  of  his  soci- 
ety, or  treat  him  with  more  partiality  than  her  other 
friends.  She  therefore  misrepresented  the  facts  a  very 
little,  rather  than  have  Mr.  Hastings  flatter  himself  too 
much  on  his  good  fortune  in  obtaining  an  audience, 
when  other  and  older  friends  had  been  refused.  She 
pulled  the  bell-rope,  and  despatched  a  servant  to  the 


76  THE   CROOKED   ELM  ; 

coachman  to  say  that  she  would  not  drive  out  that 
day.  This  message  Hastings,  of  course,  did  not  hear. 

"  Servants  are  very  stupid  sometimes,"  replied  Hast- 
ings to  the  last  remarks  of  Mrs.  Belmonte ;  "  but  I  am 
not  displeased  to  know  that  yours  was  mistaken  when 
she  told  me  you  were  ill." 

"  Oh,  as  for  that,  you  did  not  believe  her  when  she 
reported  me  so.  It  is  so  common  for  ladies  to  be  '  not 
at  home]  and  '  engaged]  and  '  not  very  well]  when 
they  have  unwelcome  visitors,  that,  had  I  treated  you  as 
I  did  my  other  friends  who  called,  you  would  have  gone 
away  saying  to  yourself,  she  does  not  care  about  being 
entertained  by  my  most  agreeable  self  to-day.  Am  I 
not  right?" 

"  You  may  be  right  in  what  you  say  relative  to  the 
custom  of  ladies  when  called  upon  by  those  whom  they 
do  not  wish  to  see ;  but  I  could  hardly  bring  myself  to 
think  that  so  sensible  a  lady  as  Mrs.  Belmonte  would 
refuse,  from  choice,  to  be  entertained  by  my  most 
agreeable  self.  So  you  see  I  should  have  gone 
away,  compelled  to  believe  the  servant's  unwelcome 
report." 

"  What  sophistry  and  egotism  !  But  a  truce  to  this 
discussion,"  said  Mrs.  Belmonte.  "  There  is  no  con- 
tending with  a  lawyer,  so  I  will  not  try  longer  to  dis- 
possess you  of  your  erroneous  opinions.  I  hope  you 
got  home  safely  the  other  nigh.t,  and  dreamed  pleasantly 
of  the  beautiful  Miss  Leighton." 

"  I  got  home  safely,  and,  if  I  recollect  rightly,  had 
pleasing  dreams." 

"  Of  course  you  do  not  remember  what  your  dreams 
were  ?  " 

"  I  believe,"  said  Hastings,  humorously,  "  that  they 
were  of  music,  mild  eyes,  and  —  but  I  forget  all  the 
features  of  the  dream." 


OR,   LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  77 

"I  think  I  could  describe  them  for  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Belmonte ;  "  but,  as  you  seem  to  desire  me  to  do  so,  I 
won't.  She  called  here  yesterday." 

"  Who  ?  "  asked  Hastings. 

"  That,"  replied  Mrs.  Belmorfte,  "  is  the  best  thing  that 
I  have  heard  since  the  new  drama  at  Wallack's. 
Who !  just  as  if  you  don't  know  who.  I  see  you  are 
determined  to  make  me  talk  about  her,  whether  I  will 
or  no.  But  I  won't,  if  only  to  tease  you.  Mr.  Bel- 
monte thinks  it  would  be  the  best  match  of  the  season." 

"  You  talk  to  me  in  riddles,  Mrs.  Belmonte ;  but  if 
my  friend  Belmonte  had  the  remotest  reference  to  me 
in  his  allusions  to  a  splendid  match,  I  should  have 
only  the  one  answer  to  make  to  any  prospect  so  flatter- 
ing, be  the  lady  who  she  may." 

"  And  what  would  that  answer  be,  pray  ?  "  inquired 
Mrs.  Belmonte. 

."  Why,  that '  Barkis  is  willin','  of  course." 

Mrs.  Belmonte  laughed,  and  said :  — 

"  Surely,  no  lady  can  find  fault  with  your  exceedingly 
accommodating  and  amiable  disposition."  They  re- 
mained some  time  talking  in  this  light  and  familiar 
way.  They  did  not  feel  or  act  towards  each  other  as 
strangers;  there  was  something  that  made  them  feel 
like  friends ;  what  that  something  was  neither  of  them 
knew,  nor  did  either  know  that  the  feeling  was  mu- 
tual. Mr.  Hastings  continued  to  call  occasionally 
on  Mrs.  Belmonte,  and  had  by  invitation  dined  several 
times  with  her  and  her  husband.  One  afternoon  in 
the  letter  part  of  June,  when  he  had  called  to  see 
Mrs.  Belmonte,  and  was  about  taking  his  leave,  she 
asked :  — 

"  Has  Mr.  Belmonte  told  you,  that  we  were  going  to 
Saratoga  on  next  Monday  ?  " 
7* 


78  THE   CROOKED   ELM  J 

"  He  has  not,"  answered  Hastings. 

u  He  said  he  would  tell  you  to-day,  and  would  try  to 
get  you  to  accompany  us." 

"  I  presume  he  has  called  at  my  office,  and  found  me 
not  at  home,"  said  Hastings. 

"  The  papers  say  that  Saratoga  is  very  gay  this  sea- 
son," said  Mrs.  Belmonte.  "  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Hastings, 
that  Miss  Leighton  is  stopping  there  ?  " 

"  I  think,"  answered  he,  "  that  I  read,  somewhere,  that 
she  was  at  a  'hop'  at  the  United  States  the  other 
night" 

"  How  very  indefinite  your  recollection  is,  to  be  sure," 
replied  she.  "  You  think  you  read  somewhere,  that  she 
was  at  a  hop  the  other  night.  Your  memory  seems 
very  dull  indeed.  But  you  will  accompany  us  on  Mon- 
day, and  thus  be  able  to  see  the  Saratoga  belle  for  your- 
self?" 

"  I  will  try  to  do  so,"  said  he ;  "  but  the  time  is  so 
short  that  I  may  have  to  deprive  myself  the  pleasure." 

"  We  shall  remain  there  two  or  three  weeks,  and  then 
go  on  to  Niagara  Falls.  I  think  the  trip  would  be 
beneficial  to  you,  besides  being  very  pleasant,  unless 
you  were  made  jealous  by  rivals ;  for  I  received  a  letter 
from  Miss  Leighton  yesterday,  in  which  she  speaks 
flatteringly  of  a  certain  Mr.  Dillingscott,  from  New 
York.  Do  you  know  the  gentleman  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  the  pleasure  of  his  acquaintance,"  answered 
Hastings ;  "  but  I  shall  soon  have,  doubtless,  for  I  must 
surely  go  and  look  after  my  interests,  or  they  will  be 
jeopardized.  I  think  you  may  safely  count  upon  being 
taxed  with  my  company  on  Monday." 

Mrs.  Belmonte  did  not  think  that  Hastings  cared  par- 
ticularly for  Miss  Leighton,  yet  she  found  it  convenient 
to  assume  that  she  did.  Belmonte  thought  that  she 
and  Hastings  would  make  a  good  match,  and  allowed 


OR,   LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  79 

himself  to  believe  that  he  was  very  much  pleased  with 
her.  Mrs.  Belmonte  did  not  wish  to  make  her  husband 
think  differently.  She  had  no  motive  in  seeming  to  be 
of  the  same  opinion  of  her  husband ;  at  least  I  don't 
think  she  had.  She  was  not  capable  of  artful  plotting, 
even  had  she  wished  it ;  yet  she  had  the  instincts,  if  I 
may  be  permitted  the  expression,  of  a  woman;  and,  since 
she  liked  the  society  of  Hastings  herself,  she  was  willing 
that  her  husband  should  think  that  he  was  partial  to 
another,  inasmuch  as  she  could  then  see  Hastings  fre- 
quently, and  without  suspicion. 

These  were  Mrs.  Belmonte's  thoughts;  but  she  df<J 
not  know  the  fact.  As  I  said  before,  they  were  her  wo- 
man's instincts.  She  never  stopped  to  reason  upon  the 
subject.  Her  heart  was  pure,  and  all  her  thoughts  were 
far  removed  from  guile. 

Monday  at  length  came,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Belmonte, 
in  company  with  Mr.  Hastings,  set  out  for  Saratoga. 
They  went  on  board  a  morning  boat  for  Albany,  and 
thus  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  beautiful  scenery  on 
the  Hudson.  They  seated  themselves  under  an  awning 
in  the  stern  of  the  boat,  and  looked  out  on  the  numerous 
sailing  vessels  that  whitened  the  river  and  bay.  It  was 
a  beautiful  morning,  and  nature  seemed  to  smile  on  all 
around.  As  the  boat  moved  out  into  the  middle  of  the 
river,  Hastings  said,  addressing  Mrs.  Belmonte :  — 

"  I  have  witnessed  this  scenery  very  often,  yet  it  always 
looks  new  and  beautiful." 

"  It  is  very  picturesque,"  replied  Mrs.  Belmonte. 

"  Do  you  see  the  '  Elysian  Fields '  yonder  on  the  Jersey 
shore?"  inquired  Hastings. 

"  You  mean  that  beautiful  wood,  yonder  ?  "  said 
Mrs.  Belmonte. 

"  Yes,"  answered  he ;  "  that  might  be  made  into  one 
of  the  most  attractive  and  pleasant  retreats  in  the  vicinity 


80  THE  CROOKED   ELM  J 

of  New  York ;  but  now  they  are  frequented  by  a  class 
that  effectually  excludes  respectable  visitors.  There  are 
many  tales  related  of  occurrences  which  have  taken 
place  in  these  '  fields,'  which  lead  me  to  think  that  they 
are  not  safe  places  to  visit  after  dark." 

"  So  I  have  frequently  heard  said,"  replied  Mrs.  Bel- 
monte. 

"  There  is  one,"  resumed  Hastings,  "  told  of  a  beautiful 
young  woman  who  had  been  induced  to  accompany  a 
pretended  lover  there.  Night  came  on,  but  she  did  not 
return  to  her  home.  Search  was  made  for  her,  and  on 
the  next  morning  her  body  was  found  in  the  river,  near 
the  Jersey  shore,  with  marks  of  violence  upon  her 
person.  A  merchant  of  New  York  was  suspected  of 
being  connected  with  her  murder ;  but  there  was  not 
sufficient  evidence  against  him  to  warrant  his  indict- 
ment for  the  crime.  He  feared  to  remain  longer  in  New 
York,  however,  and  it  is  said  that  he  left  the  country." 

"  I  should  be  afraid  to  visit  such  a  place  after  what 
you  have  related,"  said  Mrs.  Belmonte. 

"  They  can  be  safely  visited  by  ladies,  except  on  Sun- 
days," said  Hastings.  "  On  that  day  they  are  infested 
by  rogues  of  all  classes  and  descriptions,  who  go  there 
to  practise  on  the  working  classes  that  resort  to  the 
*  fields '  to  get  a  sniff  of  wholesome  air,  and  who  can 
go  on  no  other  day  in  the  week." 

"  They  look  very  lovely  at  this  distance,"  said  Mrs. 
Belmonte.  "  I  do  not  wonder  that  the  laboring  classes 
resort  to  them  for  recreation." 

Belmonte,  who  had  been  sitting  in  silence  during  the 
previous  conversation,  excused  himself  to  his  wife  and 
Hastings,  and  left  them  to  themselves.  He  had  not 
been  listening  to  what  they  said.  He  had  been  thinking 
of  one  who  lived  upon  the  banks  of  the  river  near  where 
they  were,  and  of  his  unsuccessful  attempt,  not  long 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  81 

before,  with  Merle.  As  he  walked  away,  Hastings 
said:  — 

"  Do  you  see  that  hill,  yonder,  about  a  mile  beyond 
the  Elysian  Fields  ?  " 

"  I  do,"  answered  she.  "  You  mean  the  one  on 
which  those  houses  are  ?  " 

"  That  is  the  one,"  said  he.  «  I  have  a  little  history 
of  my  own  in  connection  with  that,  to  which,  if  you  have 
the  patience  to  listen,  I  will  relate." 

"  I  shall  be  delighted  to  hear  it,"  said  Mrs.  Belmonte, 
evidently  quite  interested  in  their  familiar  conversation. 

"  It  was  some  years  ago,"  commenced  Hastings.  "  I 
had  never  before  visited  New  York  but  once,  and 
then  only  to  remain  a  day  or  two  in  the  city.  I  was 
verdant,  of  course,  and  did  not  fear  any  one.  I  was 
not,  in  short,  so  well  acquainted  with  New  York 
as  I  am  now. .  One  pleasant  day,  in  company  with  a 
dear  lady  friend,  I  visited  the  Elysian  Fields."  Mrs. 
Belmonte  was  all  attention  now.  The  "dear  lady 
friend  "  had  excited  her  curiosity.  "  We  had  heard  that 
they  were  very  beautiful,  and  we  wished  to  see  them. 
We  crossed  the  ferry,  therefore,  and  wandered  for  some 
time  through  the  beautiful  groves,  looking  at  all  that 
presented  itself  for  our  inspection.  In  some  places  we 
saw  small  parties  of  sailors,  with  their  sweethearts, 
dancing  on  the  grass  to  the  music  of  violins,  played  by 
sons  of  ebony.  At  others  were  small  pic-nic  parties, 
seated  in  the  thick  shade  of  some  trees,  cosily  eating  a 
sociable  lunch,  while  a  little  out  of  the  way  might  be 
seen  .some  devoted  swain  seated  affectionately  by  his 
dulcinea  and  whispering  in  her  ear,  as  it  would  seem, 
the  zephyr  accents  of  love.  Well,  we  had  seen  much 
of  the  fields  —  had  visited  the  cave,  the  swing,  the  rid- 
ing ponies,  and  I  know  not  what,  when,  passing  through 
the  wood,  we  walked  across  the  cleared  field  towards 


82  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

the  hill,  which  I  pointed  out,  but  which  is  now  out  of 
sight.  The  side  of  the  hill  was  then  covered  with  thick 
growing  bushes  and  trees.  Near  the  bottom  there  was 
a  path  leading  through  bushes  so  dense  that  we  could 
scarcely  see  out.  We  followed  this  path  in  for 
nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  and  had  seated  ourselves  on 
the  grass  in  a  shaded  spot,  overhung  with  thick  vines. 
We  had  sat  there  for  some  time,  when  I  heard  a  slight 
noise,  and  on  looking  up  saw  a  man  crouching  almost 
upon  us.  He  was  a  little  higher  up  on  the  hill  than  we 
were,  and  was  not  more  than  four  or  five  steps  from  us. 
I  immediately  sprung  to  my  feet,  and  demanded  of  him 
his  purpose.  He  replied,  with  the  utmost  coolness,  that 
that  was  his  own  business ;  whereupon  I  placed  my 
hand  to  my  pistol  pocket,  and  told  him  that  it  would  be 
my  business  to  judge  of  his  motives  if  he  remained 
longer  where  he  was  He  then,  with  a  sullen  and  dis- 
appointed look,  turned  away  and  left  us.  We  also  left, 
and  were  satisfied  with  getting  off  with  our  lives.  We 
had  some  jewelry  about  us,  and  that  probably  had  in- 
duced him  to  follow  us."  Mrs.  Belmonte  had  listened 
with  the  intensest  interest  to  Hastings'  story,  and  not 
the  less  so  that  he  had  introduced  into  it  his  dear  lady 
friend. 

"  How  strange  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Belmonte,  when  he 
had  finished  ;  "  but  your  friend  —  who  was  she  ?  " 
This  was  said  without  thought"  as  to  whether  the  ques- 
tion was  a  proper  one  to  put  or  not. 

"  The  dear  friend  I  mentioned,"  replied  he,  with  a 
sober  countenance,  "  was  Mrs.  Hastings,  my  wife." 

"  Have  you  then  been  married  ?  "  inquired  Mrs.  Bel- 
monte, with  the  utmost  surprise.  "  I  never  heard  that 
you  had  been,  and  had  always  supposed  to  the  con- 
trary." 

"I  was  married  when  quite  young,"  answered  he, 


OK,   LIFE   BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  83 

"  and  have  been  a  widower  for  some  years.  I  never  be- 
fore have  mentioned  the  fact  to  any  one  in  New  York, 
simply  because  it  is  an  unpleasant  subject  for  me  to 
converse  upon,  and  must  of  necessity  be  one  of  indif- 
ference to  others." 

"  I  think  you  are  mistaken  there,"  said  she.  «  What 
concerns  you  cannot  be  a  subject  of  indifference  to  your 
friends." 

"  Be  that  as  it  may,"  said  he,  "  you  are  the  only  one 
to  whom  I  have  mentioned  the  subject.  I  told  you  a 
personal  incident  in  my  life,  in  which  I  introduced  a 
lady  in  such  connection,  that  'justice  demanded  that  I 
should  tell  you  who  she  was.  You  now  have  the  fact 
of  my  previous  marriage,  and  may  I  rely  upon  your  not 
mentioning  it  to  your  friends  ?  I  do  not  wish  to  an- 
swer the  many  questions  that  might  be  asked  me,  should 
they  know  that  I  have  been  married." 

"  You  may  rely  upon  my  keeping  it  a  secret,  if  that 
be  your  wish,"  she  replied.  She  nevertheless  felt  anx- 
ious to  hear  more  about  a  subject  which  Hastings  made 
somewhat  mysterious  by  his  anxiety  to  have  it  kept  a 
secret.  She  did  not  question  him  further  about  it,  how- 
ever. He  had  confided  the  fact  to  her,  —  he  had  made 
her  a  confidante  by  intrusting  her  with  a  secret,  —  this 
thought  made  Mrs.  Belmonte  happy,  although  she  did 
not  ask  herself  the  reason  why.  As  the  boat  passed  by 
"  Sleepy  Hollow"  the  residence  of  the  immortal  author 
of  the  "  Sketch  Book,"  Hastings  said  to  Mrs.  Belmonte, 
who  still  sat  by  his  side  conversing  interestedly  with 
him :  — 

"  There  lives  a  man  to  be  envied  by  the  present  gen- 
eration, and  admired  throughout  all  coming  time,  for  the 
purity  of  his  writings." 

"  He  has  chosen  his  residence,"  said  she,  "  in  a  locality 


84  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

rendered  classic,  almost,  by  his  own  genius.  I  think  he 
has  shown  as  good  taste  in  the  choice  of  a  home,  as  he 
has  displayed  genius  in  the  choice  of  his  subjects,  and 
grace  in  the  style  in  which  he  has  treated  them." 

"  Sleepy  Hollow  is  a  lovely  place ;  and  long  may  the 
author  of  the  '  Broken  Heart '  live  to  enjoy  it,"  said 
Hastings. 

"Do  you,  then,"  asked  Mrs.  Belmonte,  "believe  in 
broken  hearts?" 

"  I  think  there  are  instances,"  replied  he,  "  where  the 
mind  loses  its  balance  by  disappointed  love,  and  the 
nobler  objects  of  life  cease  to  have  a  controlling  influence. 
I  recollect  one  of  the  kind  now." 

"  Is  it  of  a  man,  or  woman  ?  "  inquired  she. 

"  Of  a  man." 

"  Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  relate  the  facts  to  me, 
Mr.  Hastings  ?  I  should  like  to  hear  them,  if  you  do 
not  object  to  the  recital."  *''  ' 

"  If  the  story  will  entertain  you,  I  know  no  reason  why 
I  may  not  tell  it.  But  I  think  I  am  talking  more  than 
my  share  of  the  time." 

"  I  will  give  you  absolution  for  the  offence,"  said  Mrs. 
Belmonte,  "before  you  commence;  so  there  remains 
no  reason  why  you  should  not  begin  at  once." 

"  But,"  said  Hastings,  "  where  is  Belmonte  ?  I  have 
not  seen  him  for  some  time."  As  he  said  this,  he  ex- 
cused himself  to  Mrs.  Belmonte,  and  went  in  search  of 
him.  He  found  him  in  his  state-room,  seemingly  de- 
pressed in  spirits. 

"  Are  you  sick,  Belmonte  ?  "  inquired  Hastings.  "  A 
little,"  answered  he ;  "  these  boats  always  make  me  sick. 
But  it  is  of  no  consequence ;  I  shall  soon  be  better.  In 
the  mean  while,  I  must  request  you  to  entertain  Mrs. 
Belmonte."  Hastings  soon  returned,  and  related  to  her 


OB,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  85 

the  story  of  Robin  Moulton,  leaving  out  nothing,  save 
the  names  of  the  characters  which  he  introduced.  When 
he  had  finished,  Mrs.  Belmonte  said :  — 

"  The  tale  is  certainly  a  mournful  one,  and  justifies 
your  belief  in  broken  hearts.  I  shall  never  read  of  crime 
and  depravity  in  others  again,  without  feelings  of  pity 
for  the  criminals." 

"  There  doubtless  are,"  said  Hastings,  "  many  men 
engaged  in  crime,  who,  by  nature,  possess  as  noble  feel- 
ings as  men  generally  do.  Their  abandoned  course  of 
life  has  been  induced,  perhaps, by  disappointed  hopes,  or 
by  the  unjust  laws  of  society.  Yet  it  would  be  unsafe 
to  treat  them,  as  a  class,  with  the  leniency  growing 
out  of  sympathy.  The  innocent  demand  our  protection. 
Society  must  correct  its  own  defective  laws,  if  it  would 
keep  its  sons  and  daughters  free  from  crime  and  misery." 
They  had  now  reached  the  Highlands,  and  were  passing 
through  this  wildest  of  river  scenery.  All  eyes  were 
turned  to  the  high  mountain  ranges  which  abut  in  close 
proximity,  rendering  the  channel  of  the  river  very  nar- 
row and  crooked. 

"  We  are  now,"  said  Hastings,  "passing  through  the 
'  Wind  Gate,'  I  believe.  Do  you  see  that  marble  shaft 
on  the  hill  yonder,  Mrs.  Belmonte  ?  It  is  a  monument 
to  the  Polish  patriot,  Thaddeus  Kosciusko.  It  was  in 
this  wild  and  romantic  spot,"  continued  he,  "  that  one 
of  the  bravest  officers  of  the  American  Revolution,  the 
hero  of  Quebec  —  of  Lake  Champlain  —  of  Bemis' 
Heights,  sacrificed  his  honor  as  a  man,  and  the  many 
bright  laurels  of  fame  which  he  had  won  during  a  long 
and  arduous  struggle  for  the  freedom  of  his  country. 
Surrounded  by  a  picture  as  wild  and  bold  as  his  own 
impetuous  mind,  he  blindly  yielded  to  a  "  misguided  am- 
bition, and  to  an  ignoble  revenge ;  leaving  posterity  to 
8 


86  THE   CROOKED   ELM  J 

inscribe  on  his  tomb  the  title,  both  of  Hero  and  Traitor." 
"  The  history  of  Benedict  Arnold  is  certainly  a  melan- 
choly one,"  replied  Mrs.  Belmonte ;  "  yet  who  knows  the 
many  bitter  wrongs  that  he  may  have  suffered  from  an 
ungrateful  people,  or  from  personal  rivals?  Think  of 
the  story  you  just  told  me  of  another." 

"  I  have  no  doubt,"  answered  he,  "  that  he  believed 
himself  wrongly  treated,  and  it  is  probable  that  he  had 
good  cause  for  thinking  so  ;  but  that  would  not  justify, 
nor  even  mitigate,  his  treason."  At  this  point  in  the 
conversation,  a  steamboat  going  down  the  river  met 
and  passed  so  close  to  the  boat  which  they  were  on, 
that  many  of  the  passengers  were  frightened,  from  an- 
ticipation of  a  collision. 

"  How  close  that  boat  came  to  us,"  said  Mrs.  Bel- 
monte, as  soon  as  it  had  passed.  "  I  thought  it  would 
run  into  ours."  She  was  leaning  forward,  as  if  to  cling 
to  Hastings,  in  case  of  danger,  for  protection.  "  How  it 
frightened  me  ! "  continued  she.  "  I  do  not  understand 
how  they  can  pass  each  other  in  this  channel,  in  the 
night.  I  should  fear  to  travel  on  a  night  boat." 

"  It  is  sometimes  dangerous,"  replied  Hastings.  "  A 
few  years  since,  as  the  steamboat '  Swallow '  was  on 
her  way  to  New  York,  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
freighted  with  human  beings,  she  was  overtaken  by  a  vio- 
lent snow-storm,  which  so  enshrouded  her  in  thick  dark- 
ness as  to  render  it  impossible  for  the  captain  to  deter- 
mine the  true  channel  of  the  river,  and,  mistaking  his 
course,  the  unfortunate  vessel  was  wrecked  on  the  rocks, 
and  some  thirty  passengers,  who  but  a  moment  before 
had  been  in  high  life  and  glee,  were  buried  in  the  dark 
waters  of  the  Hudson,  with  no  funereal  dirge  save 
the  fierce  howling  storm.  This  is  but  one  of  the 
many  occurrences  of  the  kind ;  and  I  mention  it  only 


OR,   LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  87 

because  I  was  one  of  the  passengers  on  the  boat  at  the 
time" 

"  How  were  you  saved  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Belmonte,  eagerly. 

"  I  seized  a  floating  box,  and  clinging  to  it  drifted 
ashore  about  a  mile  below  where  the  boat  was  wrecked. 

"  How  frightful  it  is  to  think  of  the  many  accidents 
and  loss  of  life  on  the  Hudson,"  exclaimed  she. 

They  were  all  now  running  from  side  to  side  to 
witness  the  different  prospects  presented  by  the  frequent 
turning  of  the  boat,  as  it  followed  the  crooked  channel. 
There  were  "  Thunder  Chamber,"  "  Crow-nest,"  "  An- 
thony's Nose,"  "  Sugar  Loaf,"  etc.,  all  looking  as  wild 
and  sublime,  as  they  were  picturesque  and  beautiful. 

"  I  have  passed  through  these  Highlands  several 
times,"  said  Mrs.  Belmonte;  "but  I  never  saw  them 
when  they  appeared  so  lovely  as  now.  How  does  the 
scenery  in  this  river  compare  with  that  on  the  Rhine, 
Mr.  Hastings  ?  " 

"  It  is  unlike  it  in  almost  every  respect,"  replied  he. 
"  The  Rhine  is  noted  for  its  ruins,  while  here  we  have 
nature  in  all  its  wildness.  Unlike  the  Rhine,  this  river 
.has  no  ruins  to  commend  it  to  the  classic  epicure.  Here 
are  none  of  the  relics  of  a  heathen  mythology,  —  no 
antiquated  castles  grace  its  banks.  All  is  modern, — 
every  thing  presents  the  appearance  of  youth.  In  short, 
it  is  the  scenery  of  the  New  World,  and  the  beholder 
must  look  upon  it  as  such,  and  not  as  upon  the  mould- 
ering rains  of  the  legendary  past.  There  are  no  temples 
here,  dedicated  to  heathen  divinities ;  no  battle  grounds 
of  gods  or  demi-gods.  We  must  view  it  as  a  beautiful 
painting,  pencilled  by  the  fingers  of  Omnipotence,  —  a 
panoramic  display  of  the  ingenuity  and  genius  of  man, 
combined  with  the  divinity  and  magnificence  of  nature." 

"  I  declare,  you  are  quite  poetic,  Mr.  Hastings,"  said 
she,  as  he  finished  his  last  sentence.  "  If  you  only  pre- 


88  THE   CROOKED   ELM  | 

serve  this  Byronic  turn  of  mind  until  we  get  to  Saratoga, 
I  think  you  need  fear  no  rivals.  Miss  Leighton  is  par- 
tial to  poetry,  and  I  believe  sometimes  courts  the  muses 
herself." 

"  Does  she  ?  "  asked  he,  laughingly.  "  I  must  then 
brush  up  my  imagination  a  little." 

"  I  think  you  must  have  written  rhymes  before  now  ?  " 
said  she,  inquiringly. 

"  I  assure  you,  Mrs.  Belmonte,  that  I  have  never  been 
guilty  of  the  attempt  but  once  or  twice  in  my  life ;  and 
then  I  only  succeeded  in  convincing  myself  that  I  never 
could  make  my  prose  thoughts  jingle,  should  1  try  never 
so  hard.  I  might  succeed  in  reciting  the  poetry  of  others, 
perhaps.  I  could  select  passages  from  Byron  or  Moore 
or  Burns,  or  some  other  author  that  deals  in  heart-ware, 
and  recite  them  indifferently  well.  If  the  Saratoga 
belle  were  here  now,  I  might  declaim  something  in  praise 
of  this  beautiful  river;  some  verses  which  I  now  recol- 
lect, for  instance.  I  have  forgotten  the  author ;  but  who- 
ever he  is,  I  am  convinced  that  he  is  a  jolly  good  fellow, 
who  was  not  only  poetic,  but  also  sufficiently  patriotic. 
Perhaps  G.  P.  Morris  is  the  author." 

"I  should  like  to  hear  them,"  said  Mrs.  Belmonte, 
"  after  the  curiosity  you  have  awakened  in  me  to  know 
what  they  are." 

Hastings  then  recited  the  following  verses. 

"  They  may  sing  of  the  Rhone  and  the  Rhine, 

With  their  palaces,  castles,  and  towers ; 
Of  their  banks,  overflowing  with  wine, 

And  their  hamlets,  embosomed  in  flowers : 
But  while  through  our  own  native  land, 

The  Hudson's  blue  billows  shall  shiver, 
I  will  hail  it  with  heart  and  with  hand, 

Nor  sigh  for  a  lovelier  river. 


OR,   LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  89 

"  Our  Highlands,  what  foe  dare  invade, 

Where  the  arm  of  each  freeman 's  a  tower  ? 
And  for  castles,  see  you  Palisade, 
And  scoff  at  the  enemy's  power. 

******* 

"  Then  fill  high  to  our  beautiful  stream, 

We  ask  not  a  braver  or  broader ; 
On  its  bosom  what  argosies  gleam ! 

How  green  wave  the  woods  on  its  border ! 
While  its  waters  shall  flash  in  the  sun, 

No  rival  our  heart-ties  shall  sever ; 
But  we  11  sing,  will  we  not  ?  every  one, 

The  Hudson  —  the  Hudson  forever ! " 

"  Beautiful ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Belmonte,  "  and  so  ap- 
propriate. I  think  you  can  be  trusted  with  your  new 
rivals."  Thus  did  Hastings  and  Mrs.  Belmonte  con- 
tinue to  converse  and  enjoy  the  scenery,  until  they 
reached  Albany.  The  three  then  proceeded  on  to  Sara- 
toga, and  arrived  there  a  little  after  dark.  Mrs.  Belmonte 
never  in  her  life  had  enjoyed  a  day's  sailing  so  much 
as  the  one  just  described.  Hastings,  without  realizing 
it  at  the  time,  had  conversed  with  her  in  a  friendly  man- 
ner, and  with  a  greater  degree  of  confidence  than  was 
his  custom  when  talking  with  friends.  They  were  both 
happy  in  each  other's  society,  without  knowing  or 
inquiring  the  cause. 

Hastings,  since  the  death  of  his  wife,  had  gone  little 
into  society.  His  early  disappointments,  his  later 
troubles,  weighed  upon  his  sensitive  mind,  and  produced 
melancholy  and  depression  of  spirits.  Since  he  had 
known  Mrs.  Belmonte  he  was  more  cheerful ;  and  when 
in  her  society  he  forgot  the  many  trials  of  his  life,  and 
was  carried  back,  in  memory,  to  the  happier  days  of  his 
boyhood.  He  had  already  come  to  feel 'that  his  only 
happy  hours  were  those  passed  in  conversing  with  her. 
8* 


90  THE   CROOKED   ELM. 

They  had  been  at  Saratoga  about  a  week,  when  Bel- 
monte,  one  fine  morning,  invited  Hastings  to  take  a  short 
walk.  When  they  had  gone  as  far  as  the  little  Indian 
village,  they  seated  themselves  in  the  shade,  and  held 
the  following  conversation. 

"  I  have  been  thinking,"  commenced  Belmonte,  "  that 
I  had  better  return  to  the  city  and  complete  the  busi- 
ness which  has  been  so  unsuccessfully  begun.  Until  it 
is  finished,  I  shall  not  rest  content.  Amid  all  the  gay- 
ety  of  this  place,  I  am  thinking  only  of  that  one  object, 
yet  to  be  accomplished."  This  was  a  subject  unpleas- 
ant to  Hastings.  He  had  seen  enough  of  Belmonte  to 
believe  him  unscrupulous ;  and  he  feared  that  the  child 
was  not  safe  so  long  as  it  stood  between  him  and  a  for- 
tune. Belmonte  was  the  nearest  relative  to  the  old 
gentleman  with  whom  little  Flora  was  living,  and 
would,  under  the  law,  inherit  at  the  old  man's  death  a 
large  property.  A  will  had  been  made,  however,  giving 
the  property  to  Flora,  provided  she  outlived  the  old 
man.  This  will  sufficiently  explain  to  the  reader  the 
reason  why  Belmonte  was  so  anxious  to  have  little 
Flora  put  out  of  his  way. 

"  Do  you  think,"  asked  Hastings,  "  that  you  will  suc- 
ceed in  another  effort,  should  you  make  one  ?  Consider 
the  danger  attending  such  a  desperate  undertaking. 
Had  we  not  better  let  the  matter  rest  where  it  is  for  the 
present  ?  " 

"  I  will  never  give  it  up,  until  I  give  up  my  life!"  said 
Belmonte,  passionately.  "  You  have  promised  your 
assistance,  and  I  trust  you  have  too  much  honor  to 
break  your  word." 

"  There  is  very  little  honor  connected  with  so  base  a 
business,  I  think,"  replied  Hastings,  indignantly. 

"  What  do  you  advise  ?  "  asked  Belmonte  more  coolly, 
after  sitting  a  moment  in  silence. 


OK,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  91 

"  Since  you  are  determined  not  to  abandon  the  enter- 
prise," said  Hastings,  "  I  know  no  reason  why  you  may 
not  return  at  once  and  proceed  with  it.  Recollect,  how- 
ever, that  I  shall  expect  you  to  adhere  rigidly  to  your 
former  promises  respecting  the  safety  of  the  child." 

"  I  will  do  as  I  promised,"  said  Belmonte. 

"  I  must  write  a  line  to  Merle,"  said  Hastings. 
«  Where  shall  I  tell  him  to  meet  you  ?  " 

"  Say,"  answered  Belmonte, "  that  I  will  meet  him  on 
next  Wednesday  night  where  I  last  parted  with  him." 

"  I  will  do  so,"  said  Hastings ;  and  the  two  left  the 
wood  and  returned  arm  in  arm  to  Congress  Hall,  where 
they  were  stopping. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 


THE  next  morning  Belmonte,  before  taking  leave  of 
his  wife  and  Hastings,  said  to  the  latter :  — 

"  Hastings,  my  good  fellow,  you  must  not  let  Miss 
Leighton  monopolize  all  your  time  in  my  absence.  I 
shall  expect  you  to  give  some  of  your  leisure  moments 
to  Mrs.  Belmonte,  whom  I  leave  to  your  protection." 

"  Never  fear,"  said  Mrs.  Belmonte,  anticipating  Hast- 
ings' answer;  "  I  will  take  good  care  that  she  has  a  rival 
in  me  for  his  attentions." 

"  As  for  that,"  said  Hastings,  « I  think  that  Mrs.  Bel- 
monte need  not  fear  Miss  Leighton  as  a  rival,  for  she  is 
surrounded  by  so  many  brilliant  stars,  that  my  rushlight 
will  be  obscured  when  contrasted  with  them." 

"  How  very  modest  we  are,  to  be  sure,"  said  Mrs. 
Belmonte,  laughing. 

When  Belmonte  had  gone,  Mrs.  Belmonte  and  Miss 
Leighton  were  almost  constantly  together.  Hastings 
always  accompanied  them  to  the  table,  and  waited  upon 
them  when  they  appeared  in  public.  He  walked  with 
them  Whenever  they  visited  the  Springs,  and  chaperoned 
them  whenever  they  drove  or  rode  out.  It  was  soon 
rumored  among  the  gossiping  circles  that  Miss  Leighton 
was  very  partial  to  him.  This  was  somewhat  annoying 
to  two  or  three  of  her  particular  admirers,  who  had, 
until  Hastings'  arrival,  been  favored  with  her  enoourag- 

(92) 


THE   CROOKED   ELM.  93 

ing  smiles.  She  was  by  common  consent  denominated 
one  of  the  belles  at  the  Springs ;  and  in  consequence 
they  felt  the  more  chagrined  that  another  should  sup- 
plant them  so  easily.  But,  like  gallant  young  knights, 
they  were  determined  not  to  retire  from  the  field  with- 
out a  contest  with  their  presuming  rival. 

One  evening,  Hastings,  in  company  with  Mrs.  Bel- 
monte and  Miss  Leighton,  attended  a  "  hop "  given  at 
the  United  States  Hotel.  There  were  hundreds  of  gayly 
dressed  beaux  and  belles  present  from  all  parts  of  the 
country.  Anxious  mothers  were  there  also,  eagerly 
looking  out  for  eligible  young  men  to  introduce  to  their 
marriageable  daughters.  Bread  and  butter  misses,  fresh 
from  boarding-school,  brought  out  for  the  first  time  in 
their  lives,  mingled  in  the  gay  assemblage  —  a  little 
stiff  and  awkward,  to  be  sure,  in  exemplifying  the  calis- 
thenic  lessons  which  had  been  so  recently  taught  them 
—  but  nevertheless  blushing,  bashful,  beautiful.  It  was 
a  gay,  a  fashionable '"  hop."  Miss  Leighton,  looking 
her  loveliest  and  glistening  in  diamonds,  moved  among 
the  throng,  the  conscious  beUe  of  the  evening.  Hastings 
was  particularly  attentive  to  her,  without  at  all  neglect- 
ing Mrs.  Belmonte ;  and  it  was  observed  by  all,  that  she 
was  flattered  and  pleased  by  his  attentions.  He  mo- 
nopolized most  of  her  time  during  the  entire  evening, 
much  to  the  discomfiture  and  mortified  pride  of  his 
jealous  rivals.  Thus,  on  his  arrival,  he  had  shown  Mrs. 
Belmonte  that  the  victory  was  his,  if  he  sought  it.  And 
need  I  say,  it  was  for  this  purpose  that  he  had  been  so 
attentive  to  Miss  Leighton  ?  He  wished  ta  show  her 
that  he  had  confidence  in  his  ability  to  engage  success- 
fully in  such  a  contest  for  empire.  Perhaps  he  wished 
to  make  her  a  little  jealous  of  the  Saratoga  belle ;  if  so, 
he  succeeded  to  a  charm,  for  she  began  to  think  that  he 
devoted  too  much  of  his  time  to  Miss  Leighton.  She 


94  THE  CROOKED   ELM; 

did  not  know  the  fact,  perhaps,  but  Hastings  did,  and 
felt  a  little  flattered  in  consequence.  Miss  Leighton 
now  became  a  source  of  annoyance  to  him.  She  ac- 
companied him  and  Mrs.  Belmonte  wherever  they  went ; 
nor  would  she  accept  of  any  other  chaperone  than  him- 
self. She  always  had  some  excuse  to  give  to  those  who 
invited  her  to  ,a  drive,  or  a  walk,  or  what  not.  Gener- 
ally she  told  them  that  she  had  an  engagement  with 
Mrs.  Belmonte,  which  they  construed  as  meaning  Mr. 
Hastings.  In  consequence  of  her  continual  presence, 
Hastings  very  seldom  had  an  opportunity  of  speaking  a 
word  privately  with  Mrs.  Belmonte.  He  began  to  wish 
Belmonte  would  return.  He  felt  that  he  was  grievously 
persecuted  by  the  bewitching  Miss  Leighton ;  and  he 
longed  to  be  relieved  of  her  society.  This  was  very  un- 
gallant  in  him,  to  be  sure,  but  was  none  the  less  true. 
Mrs.  Belmonte  was  growing  more  and  more  jealous  of 
Miss  Leighton ;  and  he,  knowing  the  fact,  was  cursing 
the  evil  fate  that  took  Belmonte  away  and  left  him  thus 
to  be  sacrificed. 

One  day,  he  in  company  with  Mrs.  Belmonte,  Miss 
Leighton,  and  a  few  others  of  their  acquaintance,  drove 
to  Saratoga  Lake.  The  weather  was  beautiful,  and 
they  all  concluded  to  stop  a  few  hours  and  fish.  It  so 
happened  from  some  cause,  that  Mrs.  Belmonte  and 
Hastings  occupied  a  boat  unaccompanied  by  any  one 
save  the  boatman.  They  had  not  conversed  alone  before 
for  several  days.  They  both,  therefore,  secretly  re- 
joiced that  they  were  rid  of  Miss  Leighton  for  at  least 
an  hour  or- two.  When  they  had  talked  together  some 
time,  Hastings  said :  — 

"  I  always  visit  this  beautiful  lake  with  peculiar  inter- 
est. I  have  a  story  to  tell  you  of  myself  sometime  in 
connection  with  it." 

"  But  why  not  tell  it  now  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Belmonte. 


OR,   LIFE   BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  95 

"  O,  it  would  take  too  long,  and  I  don't  feel  in  the 
humor  for  story-telling  to-day,"  said  he. 

"  You  are  waiting  until  you  can  have  a  larger  audi- 
ence, I  suppose,"  said  she,  with  an  ill  concealed  feeling 
of  jealousy. 

"  No,"  replied  Hastings,  "  that  is  not  the  reason,  I  as- 
sure you." 

"  Then  why  not  tell  it  at  once?  "  inquired  she,  a  little 
peevishly. 

"  It  is  too  long.  I  should  not  be  able  to  finish  it,  I 
fear,"  said  he ;  "  but  if  you  will  listen  to  it  to-night,  I 
will  tell  it ;  and,  to  convince  you  that  I  wish  none  others 
present,  may  I  request  you  to  meet  me  in  the  private 
parlor,  unaccompanied  by  Miss  Leighton  ?  "  A  blush 
suffused  Mrs.  Belmonte's  cheeks.  She  had  shown  Hast- 
ings that  she  was  jealous  of  Miss  Leighton.  She  an- 
swered him,  therefore,  by  saying :  — 

"  But  why  may  I  not  invite  her  to  be  present  ?  " 

"  If  you  very  much  desire  it,"  said  Hastings,  "  of 
course  I  cannot  object;  but  if  you  do  not,  I  should 
prefer  conversing  witn  you  alone." 

"  If  that  be  your  wish,  I  will  not  invite  her,"  said  she. 

"  The  fact  of  the  matter  is,"  said  Hastings,  "  I  am 
tired  of  the  gay  company  that  one  is  persecuted  with  at 
these  watering-places ;  and  an  evening  spent  in  a  sensi- 
ble way  will  be  a  relief.  To  speak  frankly,  Mrs.  Bel- 
monte,"  continued  Hastings,  "  I  am  bored  to  death  with 
Miss  Leighton.  I  have  already  intrusted  you  with  one 
secret,  and  I  now  tell  you  another."  Mrs.  Belmonte's 
countenance  lighted  up  at  this  plain  avowal  of  his. 
It  removed  a  heavy  load  from  her  mind. 

"  Your  secret  will  be  safe,"  replied  she ;  "  but  I  am  not 
sure  that  I  ought  not  to  take  you  to  task  for  the  ungal- 
lantry  of  the  sentiment." 

"  If  you  think  so,"  replied  he,  "  I  will  listen  to  your 


96  THE    CROOKED    ELM, 

lecture,  I  trust,  with  becoming  resignation.  You  wUi 
please  begin  at  once,  as  I  am  in  the  best  of  humors  to 
hear  a  sermon." 

"  Not  now,"  said  she,  smilingly ;  "  I  will  postpone  it 
until  I  feel  more  like  reproving  you."  The  day's  fishing 
at  length  ended,  and  the  party  returned  to  the  village. 
In  the  evening,  Mrs.  Belmonte  and  Hastings  met  as 
agreed  in  the  parlor,  and,  after  conversing  more  than  an 
hour,  he  with  a  little  persuasion  related  the  following : — 

"  It  was  about  fifteen  years  ago  that  my  father  and 
mother  visited  these  Springs.  I  was  then  a  lad  about 
thirteen  years  old."  Mrs.  Belmonte  turned  suddenly 
pale  at  this  point  in  his  story,  but  he  did  not  see  her,  — 
he  was  looking  vacantly  at  the  carpet,  seemingly  ab- 
sorbed in  what  he  was  saying.  "  We  remained  here  for 
two  months.  There  was  a  gentleman  with  his  wife  and 
little  daughter  stopping  here  at  the  same  time.  My 
father  was  not  acquainted  with  them,  but  the  little  girl 
and  I  became  intimate  friends.  She  was  about  two 
years  younger  than  I.  We  were  always  together,  and 
we  came  to  love  each  other  very  much."  Mrs.  Bel- 
monte now  Listened  with  the  intensest  nervous  excite- 
ment. Could  it  be  possible  that  she  herself  was  the 
little  girl  referred  to?  Hastings  did  not  see  her  agita- 
tion, but  continued  in  the  same  thoughtful  strain  with 
his  story.  "  One  day,  shortly  before  she  left,  I  per- 
suaded her  father  to  let  her  accompany  us  on  a  drive  to 
the  lake,  where  we  were  to-day.  My  father  and  mother 
and  others  were  of  the  party.  Cornelia  (for  that  was 
the  little  girl's  name)  and  I  rode  together  in  my  father's 
carriage,  the  happiest  pair  of  them  all.  We  talked  of 
the  fast  approaching  day  when  she  rqjist  leave,  and  we 
promised  never  to  forget  each  other.  In  a  thousand 
ways  we  declared  our  love.  We  could  not  bear  the 
thought  of  separating.  Ah"  our  talk  was  about  what 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  97 

we  would  do  when  she  had  gone.  We  at  length  arrived 
at  the  lake,  and  went  out  in  boats  to  fish.  I  recollect 
all  that  occurred  that  day  as  distinctly  as  if  it  were  yes- 
terday. Cornelia  and  I  were  in  the  same  boat.  We 
had  fished  some  time,  and  were  returning  to  the  shore, 
when  she  leaned  over  the  side  of  the  boat  in  such  a 
manner,  that  I,  fearing  she  would  fall  overboard,  sprang 
to  her  side  to  save  her.  The  boat  tilted,  and  we  both 
fell  out,  but  were  saved  from  drowning  by  the  boatman. 
The  water  was  deep,'  and  I  seized  hold  of  Cornelia  in 
my  desire  to  save  her.  I  could  not  swim,  but  I  continued 
my  hold  of  her  until  we  were  rescued.  We  were  both 
very  much  frightened ;  but  the  incident  only  made  us 
love  the  more,  if  indeed  it  were  possible  for  two  of  our 
age  to  think  more  of  each  other  than  we  then  did."  Mrs, 
Belmonte,  almost  insensible  from  conflicting  emotions, 
sat  looking  wildly  at  Hastings  as  he  continued.  "  The 
day  at  length  came  when  we  must  part.  They  were 
to  leave  in  the  afternoon.  On  the  morning  of  that  day, 
Cornelia  and  I  sat  on  the  piazza  of  the  hotel  where  her 
father  and  mother  were  stopping,  and  talked  a  long 
time.  We  promised  never  to  forget,  but  always  to 
love  each  other.  We  promised,  too,  that  when  we  grew 
up  we  would  marry.  They  were  children's  pledges  to 
be  sure,  but  I  never  forgot  them.  I  never  have  forgot- 
ten her  —  I  never  shall  forget  her !  "  This  Hastings 
said  abstractedly,  and  as  if  unmindful  that  he  had  a  lis- 
tener. "  The  coach  in  which  they  were  to  leave,  at 
length  drove  up  to  the  door.  Their  trunks  were  being 
put  on  to  it.  Her  father  and  mother  were  standing,  ready 
to  get  in,  when  Cornelia  and  I  walked  a  little  to  one 
side.  The  tears  filled  her  eyes  as  she  said,  '  Willie,  I  '11 
never  forget  you !  I  '11  love  you  always,  and  when  I  am 
far  away  I  will  pray  for  you.'  " 
9 


98  THE   CROOKED   ELM  ; 

"So  I  have,  Willie!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Belmonte, 
wildly,  rising  from  her  chair.  "  I  am  the  Cornelia  of 
whom  you  speak."  Hastings  sprang  to  his  feet,  and, 
exclaiming  — 

"  Cornelia ! "  the  two  were  in  each  other's  arms. 

Carried  away  by  the  excitement  caused  by  thus  sud- 
denly recognizing  each  other,  they  embraced  with  the 
same  feelings  that  they  would  have  done  had  they  been 
young  and  free  as  when  first  they  met.  They  had 
seated  themselves  again,  and  Mrs.  Belmonte,  all  blushes 
and  embarrassment,  mingled  with  a  perceptible  glow 
of  pleasure,  was  looking  at  Hastings,  as, if  trying  to 
recognize  her  long-loved  Willie.  They  both  remained 
silent  —  both  were  embarrassed.  All  Hastings'  attempts 
to  appear  easy  were  utter  failures.  He  saw  before 
him  his  Cornelia,  her  of  whom  he  had  so  often  dreamed, 
and  whose  image,  in  all  its  innocent  loveliness,  had 
long  been  engraven  on  his  heart.  But  she  was  the 
wife  of  another.  This  thought,  coupled  with  the  inci- 
dent just  related,  made  him  as  diffident  and  awkward 
as  young  "  Modest "  in  the  play.  His  wits  seemed  to  have 
left  him.  He  was  in  the  presence  of  her  whom  he  had 
loved  from  boyhood,  and  yet  he  was  unable  to  say  a 
word.  At  length,  after  much  stuttering  and  stammering, 
he  said:  — 

"  Cornelia  —  I  —  I  would  say,  Mrs.  Belmonte,  I  — 
perhaps  owe  you  a  —  a  —  an  —  but  —  "  Here  he  broke 
completely  down ;  and  they  both  continued  to  sit  and  look 
at  each  other,  more  embarrassed  if  possible  than  ever. 

Mrs.  Belmonte  at  length  rising  from  her  seat,  said :  — 
"  I  must  leave  you  now,  Wil — ,  I  mean  Mr.  Hastings, 
for  to-night.  The  surprise  you  gave  me  quite  overcame 
me,  and  —  and  —  I  —  I  —  You  will  please  excuse  me, 
Wil—,  Mr.  Hastings.  Good-night !  " 

"  Good-night ! "  said  Hastings ;  and  the  two  separated, 


OR,   LIFE  BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  99 

to  think  of — but  I  will  leave  the  reader  to  imagine 
what.  The  next  morning  when  they  met  at  the  break- 
fast table,  they  were  confused  and  awkward.  I  will 
pass  over  the  next  few  days,  leaving  the  embarrassed 
lovers  to  arrange  matters  to  their  own  liking ;  hoping, 
however,  that  they  will  not  let  so  trifling  and  pleasant 
an  incident  interfere  materially  with  their  mutual  hap- 
piness and  kind  feelings  for  each  other. 

Belmonte  had  been  absent  a  little  more  than  a 
week,  when  Hastings,  in  looking  over  his  letters  one 
morning,  saw  one  that  immediately  drew  his  attention. 
He  broke  the  seal,  and  read  as  follows :  — 

"NEW  YORK,  July  — ,  18 — . 

"  DEAR  HASTINGS,  —  I  think  I  shall  succeed  in  carry- 
ing out  our  plans  to-morrow.  I  have  seen ,  and 

have  arranged  every  thing  with  him  in  such  a  manner 
as  to  preclude  failure,  I  think.  The  plan  which  I  am 
now  following  was  suggested  by  him.  It  was  a  capital 
idea  —  success  is  sure.  BELMONTE." 

P.  S.      Give  my  love  to  Mrs.  Belmonte." 

"  The  villain,"  said  Hastings  to  himself  when  he 
finished  reading  the  letter,  "  to  mention  his  wife  in  con- 
nection with  such  a  business !  'Tis  well  he  spoke  of  her 
only  in  the  postscript ;  for  she  should  be  as  far  removed 
from  such  a  base  deed,  as  sin  is  distant  from  heaven. 
I  wonder  that  I  could  ever  have  lent  myself  to  such  a 
man.  He  must  be  thwarted  in  his  purposes.  He  is 
no  more  worthy  of  Cornelia  than  he  is  deserving  of 
heaven." 

Miss  Leighton  continued  to  remain  at  Saratoga,  al- 
though the  party  which  she  had  come  there  with  had 
gone  on  to  Lake  George.  She  was  the  constant  com- 
panion of  Mrs.  Belmonte,  and  in  consequence  was  as 


100  THE    CROOKED  ELM; 

much  as  ever,  when  in  public,  attended  by  Mr.  Hastings. 
It  was  now  the  common  talk  among  those  at  the 
Springs,  that  the  bewitching  Saratoga  belle  and  he 
were  engaged.  Hastings  knew  this,  and  felt  partic- 
ularly annoyed  in  consequence.  But  there  was  no  es- 
cape —  he  was  compelled  to  go  into  company  with  her ; 
and,  disagreeable  as  it  was,  he  had  frequently  to  read  in 
the  papers  his  own  name  in  connection  with  hers,  and 
so  mentioned  as  to  lead  any  one  to  believe  that  their 
marriage  had  been  agreed  upon.  Thus  matters  stood, 
until  one  day  when  he  passed  in  to  the  dinner  table 
with  Mrs.  Belmonte  and  Miss  Leighton,  who  should  he 
see  but  Mrs.  Delacy  and  her  daughter,  in  company  with 
several  of  their  friends  from  New  York.  He  immedi- 
ately went  and  spoke  to  them,  and  after  dinner  when 
they  had  assembled  in  the  drawing-room,  he  introduced 
them  to  Mrs.  Belmonte  and  Miss  Leighton.  Mrs.  De- 
lacy was  the  widow  of  a  southern  planter.  Her  hus- 
band had  been  well  acquainted  with  William  Hastings' 
father,  and  in  consequence  when  Hastings  first  went  to 
New  York  to  practise  law,  his  father  had  given  him  a 
letter  of  introduction  to  her.  She  had  an  independent 
fortune,  and  when  Hastings  presented  his  father's  letter 
she  invited  him  to  make  his  home  at  her  house.  He 
accepted  her  generous  invitation,  and  had  lived  there 
ever  since  his  first  arrival  in  the  city.  Mrs.  Delacy  was 
born  in  the  South,  and  was  of  Spanish  origin.  Her 
ancestors  were  Spanish ;  yet,  by  intermarriage  with 
people  in  this  country,  the  family  had  become  somewhat 
Americanized.  Mrs.  Delacy  had  the  black  eyes,  the 
raven  locks,  and  the  dark  complexion  of  the  Spaniard, 
with  most  of  the  American  or  English  features.  She 
was  still  called  a  young  widow,  notwithstanding  she 
had  a  daughter  sixteen  years  old ;  and  withal  was 
thought  to  be  quite  handsome.  The  daughter,  I  have 


OR,  LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  101 

already  said,  accompanied  her  at  the  time  I  have  intro- 
duced her  at  Saratoga.  She  was  the  counterpart  of 
her  mother  in  looks,  except  that  she  had  fuller  and  more 
beautiful  eyes.  This  was  her  first  introduction  into 
society,  or,  as  her  mother  expressed  it,  "  I  have  brought 
her  out  this  season,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life."  It 
had  been  Mrs.  Delacy's  custom  to  spend  the  warm 
months  at  different  watering-places  with  her  Mends,  and 
her  appearance  therefore  at  Saratoga  at  the  time  I  have 
mentioned,  was  nothing  strange.  Hastings  was  glad 
to  see  them.  He  was  determined  that  they  should 
divide  his  attentions,  at  least.  He  welcomed  their  ar- 
rival as  the  Arabian  traveller  welcomes  the  oasis  in 
the  desert.  Miss  Delacy  promised,  at  once,  to  be  a 
successful  rival  of  the  Saratoga  belle.  Hastings  was  all 
attention  to  her  whenever  she  appeared  in  public,  from 
the  feeling  of  relief  which  it  gave  him.  They  composed 
a  part  of  his  party  whenever  they  appeared  at  table  or 
in  the  drawing-room.  Miss  Delacy  was  young  and 
beautiful.  She  had  been  absent  from  New  York  at- 
tending boarding-school  most  of  the  time  since  Hast- 
ings had  lived  in  her  mother's  house,  and  consequently 
he  had  seen  very  little  of  her.  She  was  tall  and  rather 
slender,  and  when  she  walked  there  was  a  slight  ap- 
pearance of  pride  and  haughtiness  in  the  manner  in 
which  she  carried  her  head.  Her  introduction  at  the 
Springs,  under  so  favorable  auspices  as  the  particular 
attentions  of  Hastings,  necessarily  flattered  her  vanity. 
She  was  at  once  made  the  successful  rival  of  the  belle 
of  the  place.  Hastings  did  not  neglect  Mrs.  Belmonte, 
for  she  filled  all  his  thoughts ;  he  only  wished  to  show 
the  visitors  at  the  Springs  that  there  was  no  truth  in  the 
rumors  afloat  respecting  himself  and  Miss  Leighton. 
One  evening,  at  a  ball  given  at  one  of  the  hotels,  Hast- 
9* 


102  THE   CROOKED  ELM, 

ings  and  his  party  were  all  present.  After  dancing 
first  with  Mrs.  Belmonte,  he  chose  Miss  Delacy  as  his 
second  partner,  to  the  wonder  of  all  present.  He  de- 
voted most  of  his  time  to  Miss  Delacy  during  the  even- 
ing, to  the  great  delight  of  Mrs.  Delacy  (for  she  had 
already  set  her  heart  upon  marrying  her  daughter  to 
him).  He  danced  two  or  three  times  with  Miss  Delacy, 
and  but  once  with  Miss  Leighton.  His  preference  for 
the  former  was  seen  by  all,  and  it  was  immediately 
whispered  about  that  the  lovely  Miss  Delacy  had  sup- 
planted her  rival.  Mrs.  Belmonte  felt  unhappy.  She 
instinctively  disliked  Mrs.  Delacy  and  her  daughter ; 
she  could  not  tell  why  —  they  were  polite  to  her,  agree- 
able, accomplished,  and  yet  she  disliked  them.  She 
and  Hastings,  since  they  had  recognized  each  other  as 
old  lovers,  were  more  formal  when  together  than  they 
had  been  before,  notwithstanding  they  loved  as  devot- 
edly as  when  they  parted  fifteen  years  before,  with  all 
the  pledges  of  fond  and  overflowing  hearts.  But  they 
could  not  speak  their  feelings  —  she  was  the  wife  of 
another.  Hastings  was  reserved  almost  to  coldness 
when  with  her,  at  least  Mrs.  Belmonte  thought  so ;  and 
this,  together  with  his  extreme  politeness  to  Miss  Delacy, 
made  her  unhappy.  When  she  retired  to  her  own 
room  at  night  she  would  remain  awake,  and  think,  and 
think,  and  think.  "  I  am  married  to  another,"  she 
would  sometimes  say  to  herself,  "why  should  I  care 
about  his  coldness  to  me  ?  Why  should  I  be  unhappy 
because  he  bestows  his  attentions  upon  another  ?  He 
has  ceased  to  love  me  —  he  does  not  know  how  wildly 
I  worship  him.  I  have  loved  him  ever  since  we  first 
met — but  I  must  not  think  of  him  as  I  have  done  — 
it  is  wrong.  Oh !  why  was  it  that  I  never  saw  him 
again  until  I  was  another's  ?  "  Thus  ran  the  thoughts 


OR,   LITE  BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  103 

of  Mrs.  Belrnonte,  as  she  reflected  upon  the  happy  past 
and  the  wretched  present. 

Hastings  was  equally  unhappy  also.  AH  his  gayety 
was  assumed,  in  order  that  he  might  not  be  misrepre- 
sented and  misunderstood  by  the  gossips  at  the  Springs. 
He  could  not  avoid  being  embarrassed  when  with  Mrs 
Belmonte,  and  that  of  itself  made  him  reserved.  He 
did  not  think  it  right  to  reopen  the  subject  of  their  for- 
mer acquaintance.  Belmonte  had  placed  his  wife  under 
his  protection. 

"  Have  I  acted  honorably  towards  him  ? "  he  would 
frequently  ask  himself.  He  despised  Belmonte,  and 
thought  him  utterly  unworthy  of  her ;  yet  he  had  trusted 
her  to  his  honor,  and  he  felt  that  he  could  not,  then 
especially,  deceive  him,  or  act  unworthy  the  confidence 
which  Belmonte  placed  in  him. 

Thus  he  thought,  and  as  a  relief —  as  a  kind  of  des- 
perate alternative,  he  threw  himself  into  the  passing 
gayety  of  the  place,  and  made  himself  miserable  by  ap- 
pearing to  enjoy  the  society  of  the  already  well-known 
and  beautiful  Miss  Delacy. 

Mrs.  Delacy  had  never  before  enjoyed  a  summer  at 
the  Springs  so  much.  She  was  proud  of  her  daughter's 
success.  She  was  all  smiles  during  her  stay,  and  re- 
ceived much  attention  from  every  one.  In  short,  she 
was  one  of  the  celebrities  at  Saratoga.  They  continued 
at  the  Springs  for  nearly  two  months,  when  they  all  in 
company  returned  to  New  York. 


CHAPTER    IX. 


IT  was  a  long  time  before  little  Flora  became  recon- 
ciled to  the  loss  of  her  pet  dog.  Every  day  she  visited 
the  spot  where  he  lay,  and  every  day  she  prayed  the 
Lord  to  temper  the  wind  to  the  little  lambs,  and  remem- 
ber poor  Rover.  A  white  marble  slab  had  been  placed 
at  the  head  of  the  grave,  on  which  was  carved,  in  deep 
letters,  the  simple  inscription,  "  ROVER."  At  its  foot  lay 
a  little  lamb,  as  white  and  natural  and  innocent  in  ap- 
pearance as  Flora  herself.  A  little  play-house  stood 
near  by,  where  she  kept  her  dolls  and  playthings  gener- 
ally. One  day  she  was  at  Rover's  grave,  busily  at  work 
planting  and  arranging  her  flowers,  so  as  to  make  it  as 
pretty  and  lovely  as  possible.  As  she  worked,  she 
talked  to  herself  something  in  this  way :  — 

"  There,  Rover,  I  wish  you  could  see  how  pretty  these 
flowers  look.  I  will  put  this  forget-me-not  at  your  head, 
Rover,  for  grandpapa  says  it  will  make  me  always  think 
of  you ;  and  I  want  to  think  of  you  always,  Rover.  I 
will  put  it  here  where  I  can  see  it,  when  I  look  at  your 
name  —  there,  that  looks  very  pretty.  Do  you  hear  me, 
Rover  ?  I  'm  Flora,  who  used  to  play  with  you  and  put 
flowers  round  your  neck.  I  was  very  naughty  to  tease 
you  so.  If  you  were  here  now,  I  would  n't  put  flowers 
round  your  neck.  I  'd  be  very  good  to  you.  Now  I 
will  run  home  and  tell  grandpapa  how  nretty  these 

(104) 


THE   CROOKED   ELM.  105 

flowers  look.  I  will  bring  him  to  see  where  I  've  put 
the  forget-me-not.  Good-by,  Rover !  good-by !  " 

Thus  would  she  visit  and  talk  with  her  friend  every 
day.  Her  grandpapa  frequently  accompanied  her,  and 
assisted  in  adorning  and  beautifying  a  spot  so  dear  to 
his  little  angel  grandchild. 

One  day,  as  they  were  walking  hand  in  hand  along 
the  path  that  led  to  Rover's  grave,  Flora  said :  — 

"  Grandpapa,  do  you  know  what  I  am  thinking 
about?" 

"  No,  darling,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  I  am  thinking  how  good  you  were  to  give  that  old 
woman  some  money  this  morning,  and  something  to 
eat" 

"  Why  do  you  think  so,  Flora  ?  " 

"  Oh !  she  looked  so  good,  and  so  poor.  Don't  you 
think  she  is  very  good,  grandpapa  ?  " 

"  She  is  old,  my  child,  and  we  should  always  be  kind 
to  old  people." 

"  I  think  I  saw  her  crying,  grandpapa.  I  wonder  if 
she  has  lost  a  dog  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  darling." 

"  She  is  the  old  woman  I  saw  in  the  bushes  day  be- 
fore yesterday ;  she  frightened  me  very  much  then,  but 
I  will  never  be  afraid  of  her  again — she  looks  so 
good!" 

"  What  was  she  doing,  Flora  ?  " 

"  O,  she  only  looked  at  me  and  motioned  for  me  to 
come  to  her ;  but  I  ran  away." 

"  She  will  not  hurt  you  —  you  never  need  fear  her." 

"  I  won't  be  afraid  of  her  any  more.  Don't  she  talk 
funny,  grandpapa  ?  She  said,  '  Come  to  me,  honey  — 
you  pretty  wee  darlint.'"  As  Flora  said  this,  she 
laughed  heartily,  and  continued  to  repeat  some  words 
of  the  old  woman's  that  she  thought  very  funny.  "  I 


106  THE  CROOKED  ELM  J 

think,"  continued  she,  with  a  more  sober  face,  "  that  she 
is  very  good ;  for  when  she  went  away,  she  said,  '  May 
God  bless  your  honor!'  That  was  very  kind  of  her, 
wasn't  it  ?  What  did  she  mean,  grandpapa,  by  saying 
your  honor  ?  I  am  sure  she  meant  something  good  by 
it." 

"  Yes,  my  child  — "  Here  the  old  man,  breaking  off 
suddenly,  said :  "  Yonder  is  the  old  woman  now,  walking 
over  the  hill." 

Flora  looked ;  but  she  had  just  disappeared. 

"  I  wish,"  said  she,  "  that  she  would  stop  and  talk 
with  us ;  she  says  such  very,  very  funny  things.  Do 
you  know  where  she  lives,  grandpapa?  " 

"  No,  darling,  I  never  saw  her  before  this  morning." 

"  I  wish  we  knew  where  she  lived.  May  be  she  will 
come  again,  and  then  we  will  ask  her." 

They  had  now  reached  the  grave,  and  Flora,  with  a 
countenance  beaming  with  pleasure,  showed  the  old 
man  all  the  little  changes  she  had  made  about  it.  She 
never  before  had  looked  more  beautiful.  Her  large  blue 
eyes  shone  brightly  from  under  her  long  eye-lashes,  and 
her  luxuriant  hair  fell  in  lovely  ringlets  upon  her  dim- 
pled shoulders. 

"  Look  here,  grandpapa  !  I  've  put  the  '  forget-me- 
not  '  close  by  Rover's  name,  so  that  I  may  always  think 
of  him  when  I  grow  to  be  big.  Don't  it  look  pretty  ?  " 

"  Yes,  darling,  it  is  very  pretty." 

"  Grandpapa,  why  will  the  '  forget-me-not '  make  me 
remember  Rover  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  my  child." 

"  You  say,  grandpapa,  that  Rover  is  up  in  the  stars. 
Do  you  think  he  sees  these  flowers  at  night  when  the 
stars  shine  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  he  does.  If  so,  he  must  love  you  very 
much  for  making  his  grave  look  so  pretty." 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  107 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she  said,  — 

"  Grandpapa,  the  day  before  Rover  died,  I  put  some 
flowers  round  his  neck.  I  don't  think  he  liked  to  have 
me  tease  him  so.  Was  it  wrong  to  put  flowers  on  his 
neck,  grandpapa  ?  " 

"  No,  my  child.  I  am  sure  he  liked  to  have  you  play 
with  him." 

"  I  am  very  glad  that  it  was  not  wrong.  I  have 
thought  about  it  a  great  many  times." 

That  night  Flora  was  sitting  on  the  old  man's  knee. 
She  had  been  looking  attentively  in  his  face  for  some 
time,  when  she  said :  — 

"  Grandpapa,  what  makes  your  hair  white  ?  Was  it 
always  so?" 

"  Why  do  you  ask  me  that  question,  darling  ?  " 

"  Because  the  old  woman  this  morning  said  that  I 
had  such  pretty  brown  hair.  I  always  thought  your 
hair  was  pretty.  Is  my  hair  prettier  than  yours,  grand- 
papa ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  Flora.  Your  hair  is  prettier  for  you, 
and  mine  is  prettier  for  me.  You  are  young,  and  I  am 
old." 

"  Was  your  hair  always  white,  grandpapa  ?  " 

"  No ;  when  I  was  your  age,  it  was  nearly  the  color 
of  yours.  When  people  grow  old  their  hair  turns 
white." 

«  Why  does  it,  grandpapa  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell,  my  child,  unless  God  in  his  goodness 
has  taken  this  way  to  remind  us  that  we  soon  must 
die." 

"  God  is  very  good,  isn't  he  ?  I  love  him  very  much. 
Will  my  hair  be  white  when  I  grow  old  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  child ;  if  you  live  to  be  old  like  me,  your 
hair  will  be  white  like  mine." 


108  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

"  I  am  so  glad !  I  always  wished  my  hair  was  white 
like  yours." 

The  old  woman  of  whom  they  spoke  was  Aunt 
Judy.  She  had  been  sent  there  by  Merle.  The  next 
day,  Flora,  as  usual,  visited  Rover's  grave.  She  had 
not  been  there  long,  when  Aunt  Judy  walked  up  to  her 
and  said :  — 

"  Honey,  what  are  you  doing  here  ?  " 
"  I  am  planting  flowers  about  Rover's  grave." 
"  How  nice  they  look,  to   be   sure ! "   said   the   old 
woman,  as  she  seated  herself  on  the  grass. 

"  This  is  a  '  forget-me-not,' "  said  Flora,  as  she  walked 

to  the  head  of  the  grave.     "  Grandpapa  says  it  will 

make  me  think  of  poor  Rover  when  I  grow  to  be  big." 

"  You  swate  little  cratur !     You  luck  as  fresh  as  the 

posies  thimsels." 

Merle  had  told  Aunt  Judy  a  story  about  little  Flora, 
that  had  made  her  think  that  to  entice  her  away  from 
the  old  man  was  not  wrong.  She  had  not  a  bad  heart, 
however ;  and,  as  she  sat  looking  at  the  little  girl  en- 
gaged so  sweetly  among  her  flowers,  she  felt  that  she 
could  not  do  as  Merle  had  asked.  Once  she  got  up  to 
leave ;  but  her  love  for  her  "  darlint  boy  "  at  length  over- 
came her  better  instincts  of  right,  and  she  yielded 
implicit  obedience  to  his  instructions,  and  thus  aided  in 
carrying  out  the  wicked  plot. 

"  Would  you  not  like  to  have  some  more  swate  flow- 
ers, darlint  ?  "  asked  the  old  woman. 
"  Yes,  I  should  like  them  very  much." 
"  Will  you  go  with  me  and  get  some  ?  " 
"  Where  are  they,  please  ?  "  asked  Flora,  hesitatingly. 
"  Just  a  wee  bit  of  a  way ;  we  '11  be  back  in  a  jiffy." 
"  Are  they  very  pretty,  like  mine  here  ?     Are  they 
big,  red  ones  ?  "  she  asked,  still  hesitating. 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  109 

"  Yes,  darlint,  they  are  O,  so  big !  and  prittier  niver 
was  seen ! " 

Flora  at  length  consented  to  go  for  the  flowers.  As 
they  walked  away  in  company,  Flora  kept  talking  so 
innocently  and  sweetly  that  Aunt  Judy  suffered  real  tor- 
ture in  deceiving  her;  but  she  was  suffering,  as  she 
thought,  for  her  "  darlint  boy,"  and  she  continued  on. 

"  What  is  your  name,  please  ?  "  asked  Flora,  as  they 
were  descending  the  bank  towards  the  river.  The  ques- 
tion puzzled  the  old  woman,  but  she  soon  answered :  — 

"  Aunt  Peggy." 

"  Aunt  Peggy  is  a  very  pretty  name,"  said  Flora. 
"  Are  the  flowers  down  here  by  the  river,  Aunt  Peggy  ?  " 

"  No,  darlint ;  they  are  in  my  own  garden,  sure,  jist 
foment  here  on  the  other  side  of  the  river." 

Flora  hesitated ;  but  she  was  overpersuaded  by  the 
old  woman,  and  was  induced  to  get  into  the  boat. 
Aunt  Judy  took  the  oars  and  rowed  with  all  her  energy 
down  the  stream. 

"  We  '11  soon  be  there,  honey,"  said  the  old  woman,  as 
she  saw  Flora's  cheeks  turning  pale.  "  We  '11  soon  be 
•there,  and  thin  we  '11  pick  all  the  big  red  flowers  in  the 
garden,  sure.  I  '11  thin  go  back  with  you,  and  we  '11 
the  'gither  plant  thim  on  the  grave."  They  soon  landed, 
near  the  little  hut  previously  mentioned.  Flora  looked 
eagerly  about  for  the  flower-garden ;  but  seeing  none, 
the  tears  began  to  creep  into  her  eyes. 

"  Where  is  the  garden,  Aunt  Peggy  ?  "  she  asked,  in 
a  faltering  voice. 

"  O,"I  've  picked  the  flowers  for  you,  sure.  They  are 
all  in  the  house,  darlint." 

"  Please,  Aunt  Peggy,  I  want  to  go  home." 

"  We  '11  go  back  in  a  jiffy.  Just  come  in  and  choose 
the  flowers  first."  Little  Flora  went  into  the  hut,  and 
10 


110  THE   CKOOKED   ELM} 

the  door  was  locked  upon  her.  When  she  saw  the  door 
fastened  and  no  flowers  in  the  room,  she  burst  into  tears 
and  begged  to  be  taken  to  her  grandpapa.  Merle,  who 
had  been  watching  all  that  was  going  on  from  a  con- 
cealed spot  overlooking  the  river,  soon  entered  the  hut. 
He  at  first  tried  to  allay  the  fears  of  the  terrified  child ; 
but,  finding  that  he  could  not,  he  carried  her  by  force 
into  the  cave  underneath  the  house.  Aunt  Judy 
went  with  them,  and,  in  every  way  possible,  tried  to 
soothe  and  quiet  Flora.  She  promised  that  she  would 
go  back  with  her  the  next  day,  and  a  thousand  other 
falsehoods,  which  she  thought  would  comfort  the  almost 
distracted  child. 

The  night  after  little  Flora  was  taken,  Belmonte  and 
Merle  met  at  the  little  cove  in  the  river. 

"  Have  you  succeeded  ? "  asked  Belmonte,  eagerly, 
when  he  came  up  to  where  Merle  sat  in  his  skiff. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Merle. 

"  Where  is  she  ?  "  inquired  Belmonte,  excitedly. 

"  In  a  safe  place  not  far  from  here,"  answered  Merle ; 
"  and  can  be  produced  if  you  desire  it." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  see  her,"  said  Belmonte.  Then , 
thinking  a  moment,  he  added :  "  She  had  better  re- 
main concealed  for  a  few  days.  Can  you  keep  her 
safely  until  you  hear  from  me  again  ?  " 

"  It  will  be  attended  with  danger,"  said  Merle  ;  "  but 
I  suppose  I  must  do  so  if  it  is  absolutely  necessary." 

"  It  is  necessary,"  said  Belmonte.  "  Keep  her  until 
you  hear  further  from  me,  and  you  shall  not  go  unre- 
warded." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Merle. 

"  Have  you  arranged  the  other  matter  ?  "  asked  Bel- 
monte. "  I  mean,  respecting  the  substitution." 

«  Yes,"  said  Merle  ;  "  I  have  the  dead  body  of  a  child 
near  here.  Shall  I  go  and  get  it  ?  " 


OR,   LIFE   BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  Ill 

"  No,  not  now.  Can  you  have  it  here  by  to-morrow 
night  this  time  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  you  wish  it." 

"  Well,  bring  it.  Put  the  little  girl's  clothes  upon  it 
carefully.  Is  the  body  so  much  decayed  that  no  one 
will  suspect  the  deception  ?  " 

"  I  think  it  will  be  by  that  time." 

"  Every  thing,"  said  Belmonte,  nervously,  "  depends 
upon  the  success  of  this  last  desperate  undertaking.  I 
will,  when  I  leave  you  to-morrow  night,  join  in  the 
search,  and  you  must  bring  the  body  to  the  point  agreed 
upon  about  twelve  o'clock.  Keep  a  good  look-out  and 
see  that  no  one  observes  you.  I  will  be  there  watch- 
ing for  you.  Be  punctual  and  prompt,  and  all  is 
safe." 

"  I  will  do  as  yo.u  advise,"  said  Merle,  and  the  two 
parted. 

When  the  old  man  missed  Flora,  he  hunted  for  her, 
alone,  for  a  little  while ;  but  not  finding  her,  he  became 
alarmed  and  apprehensive,  and  got  others  to  assist  in 
looking  for  her.  The  news  soon  spread,  and  many 
joined  in  the  search.  The  woods  and  fields  were 
scoured  for  miles  around.  The  river  was  raked;  but 
no  Flora  was  to  be  found.  They  continued  the  search 
all  night  —  the  next  day,  and  the  next  night  again  until 
about  twelve  o'clock,  when  Belmonte  fired  a  gun  as  a 
signal  that  she  was  found.  All  rushed  to  where  they 
heard  the  report.  Belmonte  told  them  that  he  had 
found  the  body  lying  in  the  edge  of  the  river,  where  the 
receding  tide  had  left  it  It  was  in  a  state  of  decompo- 
sition, and  the  features  were  unrecognizable.  It  had  on 
the  clothes  which  Flora  had  worn  on  the  day  she  dis- 
appeared, and  no  one  suspected  the  deception  which 
had  been  so  ingeniously  practised  upon  them.  The 
body  was  taken  to  the  house,  and,  on  the  next  day,  it 


112  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

was  buried  on  the  little  hillock  by  the  side  of  Rover. 
The  old  man  had  suffered  during  his  long  life  many 
severe  afflictions;  but  none  had  caused  him  so  much" 
sorrow  and  grief  as  the  loss  of  little  Flora.  Often 
would  he  sit  in  his  arm-chair,  with  his  Bible  open, 
trying  to  gather  comfort  and  relief  from  his  troubles 
in  its  promises  ;  but  the  tears  would  steal  down  his  fur- 
rowed cheeks  and  fall  upon  its  leaves  without  bringing 
the  boon  which  he  sought.  He  had  faith  in  all  the 
promises  of  the  bible,  yet  he  sometimes  felt  like  crying 
out,  in  the  language  of  David,  "  Why  standest  thou 
afar  off,  O  Lord !  Why  hidest  thou  thyself  in  time  of 
trouble  ?  "  He  almost  daily  visited  the  grave,  and  for 
hours  he  would  sit  with  eyes  filled  with  tears,  as  he 
thought  of  his  lost  child.  "  She  was  my  only  stay  and 
comfort  in  my  old  age,"  he  would  sometimes  say  to 
himself  as  he  sat  weeping  alone.  "  One  after  another 
have  all  the  props  of  life  been  removed,  until  now,  like 
an  old  dried  up  tree,  I  am  left  a  prey  to  every  sweep- 
ing blast.  Oh!  that  the  Lord  had  spared  little  Flora 
to  me  in  my  old  age ! "  Thus  would  he  lament  and 
mourn  for  her  loss. 

Merle,  as  soon  as  he  had  witnessed  the  success  of  his 
plans,  returned  secretly  to  the  hut.  He  had  been  paid 
the  large  sum  of  money  stipulated,  and  even  more  than 
was  promised.  He  was  as  happy,  perhaps,  as  it  was 
possible  for  a  miserable  man  like  himself  to  be.  He 
was  fighting  against  society  and  the  world,  and  he  felt 
proud  of  the  mind  that  had  enabled  him  to  succeed  in 
the  unequal  contest  without  having  been  detected  in 
crime  and  but  once  suspected  of  it.  He  counted  over 
the  gold  which  he  had  just  received,  and  then  going  into 
the  cave  he  brought  from  it  several  bags  of  money. 
He  emptied  them,  and  counted  carefully  their  contents. 
When  he  had  finished,  he  said  exultingly,  "  Twenty 


OR,   LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  113 

thousand  dollars  is  not  so  bad  a  sum  as  it  might  be." 
fle  enjoyed,  for  the  moment,  his  numerous  successes  in 
crime — not  as  a  miser  enjoys  the  sight  of  his  gold  — 
but  as  a  warrior  enjoys  a  victory.  Merle  was  no  miser, 
but  the  money  which  he  had  obtained  was  an  evidence 
of  his  superior  intellect;  at  least  he  thought  so,  and 
this  alone  gave  him  a  kind  of  happiness.  He  sat  look- 
ing at  the  shining  dust  for  some  time,  and  then,  carefully 
replacing  it  in  his  bags,  carried  his  ill-gotten  treasure 
back  to  the  cave,  and  locked  it  securely  in  his  chest. 

Aunt  Judy  and  little  Flora  were  both  lying  together 
asleep.  Flora  had  cried  most  of  the  time  since  she  had 
been  shut  up  in  the  dark  and  gloomy  cave,  and  had,  for 
the  first  time  since  she  had  been  enticed  away  from  her 
home,  fallen  into  a  troubled  and  dreamy  sleep.  Merle, 
with  a  candle  in  his  hand,  walked  close  up  to  them  as 
they  lay  there  unconscious  of  his  presence.  He  looked 
anxiously  into  Flora's  face ;  her  eyes  were  red  and 
swollen  with  much  crying,  but  her  countenance  was  as 
sweet  as  an  angel's.  Merle  gazed  at  her  for  a  long 
time,  and  then  leaving,  he  muttered :  "  Sweet  child,  it 
is  at  the  expense  of  thy  happiness,  and  perhaps  thy  life, 
that  I  have  obtained  this  large  sum  of  money.  If  I 
thought  thy  life  in  danger,  I  would  rescue  it  myself. 
But  why  am  I  so  tender-hearted  ?  Who  cares  for  my 
happiness  ?  No,  I  will  not  betray  my  trust.  He  has 
paid  me  punctually,  and  even  more  than  he  promised. 
I  will  be  true."  Although  Merle  strove  to  shut  out  his 
better  feelings,  the  image  of  the  child  haunted  him. 
Her  lovely  countenance  was  continually  present  to  his 
mind's  eye.  Aunt  Judy  began  to  love  Flora  very  much, 
and  she  tried  in  every  way  possible  to  alleviate  her  suf- 
ferings and  assuage  her  grief.  She  remained  with  her 
in  the  cave  almost  constantly,  and,  in  her  homely  way, 
10* 


114  THE   CROOKED   ELM  J 

tried  to  administer  consolation  to  one  whom  she  felt 
that  she  had  very  much  wronged.  Flora,  worn  out  with 
crying,  was  less  loud  in  her  grief  than  she  had  been ; 
but  there  was  a  silent  sadness  in  her  countenance  which 
showed  how  much  she  was  suffering.  Her  heart  was 
almost  broken  by  this  strange  separation  from  her  grand- 
papa, as  she  called  the  old  man.  Her  young  mind  was 
filled  with  conjectures  and  fears.  She  wondered  what 
would  be  done  with  her  —  she  wondered  if  she  should 
always  be  shut  up  in  that  dark  room.  Sometimes  she 
wished  that  she  might  die,  and  go  to  her  old  friend 
Rover,  far  away  up  among  the  stars.  When  she  had 
been  there  about  a  week,  Merle  one  day  stole  down  to 
the  door  of  the  cave.  Aunt  Judy  had  gone  out —  Flora 
was  alone.  He  looked  cautiously  in  —  she  was  kneel- 
ing on  her  little  couch.  The  side  of  her  face  was 
toward  him  —  the  light  shone  full  upon  her,  and  re- 
vealed to  him  her  angel  countenance.  As  she  knelt, 
with  her  little  hands  raised  before  her,  she  sai<4:  "  O 
Lord !  temper  the  wind  to  the  little  lambs,  and  remem- 
ber poor  Rover."  Then,  after  hesitating  a  moment,  she 
continued  ;  "  and  please,  Lord,  remember  little  Flora, 
and  take  her  back  to  her  dear  grandpapa."  There  was 
something  so  touching  in  this  simple*  prayer,  that  Merle 
listened  as  if  she  was  in  reality  what  she  seemed,  a 
little  angel.  Tears  rilled  his  eyes,  and  he  turned  away 
with  sad  and  troubled  feelings.  For  several  days  after- 
ward he  stole  down  to  the  door  of  the  cave,  hoping 
that  he  might  hear  her  pray  again ;  but  he  was  disap- 
pointed. Her  voice,  so  sweet,  so  simple,  together  with 
the  little  prayer,  touched  a  chord  in  his  feelings  which 
had  long  been  dormant.  He  felt  anxious,  troubled,  and 
unhappy.  At  night,  when  he  had  closed  his  eyes  in 
sleep,  her  image  would  appear  to  him  in  his  dreams. 


OK,   LIFE  BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  115 

He  could  hear  distinctly  every  word  of  her  childish 
prayer.  He  was  haunted  continually,  both  in  his  wak- 
ing hours  and  in  his  sleep,  by  her  sweet  but  troubled 
looks.  He  had  visited  the  cave  many  times  unsuccess- 
fully, when,  one  day  as  he  came  to  the  door,  he  saw  her 
on  her  knees,  and  in  the  same  attitude  as  he  had  seen 
her  before.  Again  he  listened  to  the  simple  prayer,  and 
again  his  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and,  as  he  turned  away, 
he  muttered,  "  If  I  thought  he  meant  her  harm  I  would 
save  her  at  the  expense  of  all  my  money,  —  nay,  of  my 
worthless  life."  He  went  into  the  cave  one  day,  and, 
seating  himself  by  her  side,  said :  — 

"  I  do  not  mean  you  any  harm,  my  child.  Do  you 
feel  unhappy  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  go  to  grandpapa,"  she  answered,  with  tears 
filling  her  large  eyes. 

"  I  would  take  you  home,  darling,  if  I  could,  but  I 
cannot." 

"  Oh,  won't  you  take  me  home  ?  "  she  said,  implor- 
ingly. "  Grandpapa  will  like  you  very  much,  if  you 
will." 

"  I  am  trying  to  save  you  from  harm." 

"  Oh,  do  take  me  home!  "  she  again  said,  while  she 
cried  bitterly.  Merle  could  not  comfort  her.  His  hard 
heart  was  softened,  and  the  tears  trickled  down  his 
cheeks  as  he  witnessed  her  sorrow.  Flora  saw  the  tears 
in  his  eyes.  She  had  always  associated  crying  with 
goodness,  and  taking  hope  she  said :  — 

"  I  am  sure  you  are  good,  or  you  would  n't  cry. 
Won't  you  take  me  to  grandpapa  ?  " 

Merle,  unable  to  contain  his  pent  up  feelings  longer, 
put  his  handkerchief  to  his  eyes,  and  wept  bitterly. 
Little  Flora  got  up,  and,  putting  her  arm  round  his  neck, 
said :  — 

"  Do  not  ciy  so,  it  makes  me  feel  very  bad."     But  the 


116  THE   CROOKED   ELM. 

fountain  of  his  heart  had  been  unlocked,  and  th'e  tears 
continued  to  flow. 

"  What  makes  you  cry  §0  ?  Have  you  lost  a  dog  ?  " 
inquired  Flora,  soothingly.  This  was  too  much  for 
Merle's  overflowing  feelings,  and  he  hugged  her  to  him, 
while  he  vowed  in  his  heart,  that  come  what  might  he 
would  save  the  child  from  the  plot  which  he  thought 
was  laid,  perhaps,  against  her  life. 


CHAPTER    X. 


WHEN  William  Hastings  returned  to  New  York  from 
Saratoga,  he  immediately  addressed  a  note  to  Merle, 
and  waited  patiently  a  few  days  for  an  answer  to  it,  but 
receiving  none,  he  wrote  another,  and  still  another ;  but 
to  neither  of  them  did  he  get  a  word  in  reply.  It  had 
been  his  intention  to  save  the  child  from  all  harm, 
through  the  instrumentality  of  Merle,  and  eventually, 
when  he  could  do  so  with  safety,  restore  it  to  the  old 
man.  This  hope  of  saving  the  child's  life  induced  him 
to  cooperate  with  Belmonte  in  its  abduction.  No  other 
motive  actuated  him.  He  never  had  seen  either  it  or 
the  old  man,  that  he  knew  of.  He  knew  that  the  old 
man  was  Belmonte's  uncle,  and  that  the  child  had  been 
adopted  by  him.  This  was  all  that  he  knew  or  cared  to 
know  respecting  either.  Belmonte"  had  said  enough  to 
make  Hastings  believe,  that  so  long  as  the  child  stood 
between  him  and  a  fortune  its  life  was  not  safe.  For 
several  weeks  Hastings  was  unremitting  in  his  efforts  to 
find  Merle,  but  he  searched  for  him  in  vain.  He  then 
sought  Belmonte,  and  demanded  an  explanation  of 
Merle's  silence ;  but  Belmonte  could  give  him  no  satis- 
faction. This  led  Hastings  to  believe  that  the  child's 
life  had  been  destroyed,  and  that  the  story  of  substitut- 
ing a  body  in  its  stead  had  been  concocted  simply  to 
deceive  him.  But  there  was  no  way  of  learning  the 

(117) 


118  THE  CROOKED   ELM  J 

truth  of  the  matter.  All  was  doubt  and  uncertainty. 
The  thought  that  he  probably  had  been  instrumental 
in  taking  the  child's  life  made  him  unhappy,  — nay,  at 
times,  wretched.  He  had  the  poor  consolation,  to  be 
sure,  that  his  motives  were  pure  in  lending  himself  to 
Belmonte ;  but  this  was  not  sufficient  to  satisfy  his  con- 
science. Thus  is  it  with  those  who  "  do  evil  that  good 
may  come ; "  they  are  generally  thwarted  in  their  good 
purposes,  and  left  to  repent,  perhaps  for  a  lifetime,  the 
wrong  which  their  good  intentions  have  done  while, 
leagued  with  sin.  If  Hastings  had  heretofore  disliked 
Belmonte,  he  now  hated  him ;  but  he  still  pretended  to 
be  his  friend,  in  order  that  he  might  visit  Mrs.  Belmonte. 
His  love  for  her  made  him  play  the  hypocrite  to  her 
husband,  not  however  without  many  misgivings  of 
conscience  and  sore  trials  in  concealing  his  feelings 
from  Belmonte  when  in  his  presence.  He  did  not 
abandon  his  search  fof  Merle,  neither  did  he  give  up  all 
hope  of  yet  being  able  to  counteract  Belmonte's  wicked 
purposes.  He  still  lived  at  Mrs.  Delacy's.  Her  daugh- 
ter was  stopping  at  home;  and  as  soon  as  the  opera 
season  commenced  he  not  unfrequently  accompanied 
them,  together  with  Miss"  Leighton,  to  Niblo's.  The 
rivalry  between  Miss  Delacy  and  Miss  Leighton  was 
ingeniously  kept  up  by  him  ;  for  he  saw,  or  thought  he 
saw,  a  disposition  on  the  part  of  the  mother  to  have 
him,  as  much  as  possible,  associated  in  the  public  mind 
with  her  lovely  daughter.  He,  of  course,  was  not  am- 
bitious or  desirous  to  gratify  her  wishes  in  this  respect, 
and  consequently,  he  generally  invited  Miss  Leighton 
to  accompany  them  when  they  attended  public  places 
of  amusement  This  he  did  to  neutralize  the  effect  of  his 
being  seen  so  frequently  with  Miss  Delacy.  The  reader 
may  ask,  why  he  accompanied  them  at  all,  if  it  was  not 
his  wish  to  do  so.  It  will  be  remembered,  that  he  was 


OK,    LIFE   BY   THE    WAY-SIDE.  119 

living  at  Mrs.  Delacy's ;  and  he  could  not  of  course  re- 
fuse to  attend  them  to  the  opera,  whenever  they  signi- 
fied a  desire  to  go.  Besides,  he  was  pleased  with  Miss 
Delacy,  and  liked  her  society  very  much.  There  was 
nothing  unpleasant  to  him  in  thus  gratifying  them,  save 
the  fact  that  Mrs.  Belmonte  was  made  jealous  and  un- 
happy by  it.  Mrs.  Delacy  began  to  dislike  the  rival  of 
her  daughter,  although  she  tried  to  conceal  the  fact  from 
Hastings.  She  always  spoke  of  her  in  praise,  to  be 
sure ;  but  sometimes  her  compliments  were  somewhat 
doubtful  and  obscure,  from  the  double  meaning  of  the 
words  employed  to  express  them.  For  instance ;  one 
day  at  table  she  said :  — 

"  Miss  Leighton  is  to  be  envied ;  for  she  has  been  the 
reigning  belle  at  the  Springs  for  several  years  past." 

At  another  time  she  said,  in  the  presence  of  Hastings, 
"  She,"  meaning  Miss  Leighton,  "  need  have  no  fears 
of  a  successful  rival,  for  her  beauty  and  many  accom- 
plishments are  too  generally  known  not  to  be  appre- 
ciated." Now  if  there  was  one  subject  on  which  Miss 
Leighton  was  more  tender  than  another,  it  was  that  of 
her  age.  She  had  been  a  beauty  some  time,  and  was 
rapidly  climbing  the  ladder  twenty,  with  its  nine  rounds. 
Indeed,  she  had  reached  nearly  to  the  top.  A  lady's 
age,  after  she  has  attained  twenty-five, -is  a  sacred  sub- 
ject, and  never  should  be,  either  directly  or  indirectly, 
alluded  to,  by  any  one  save  the  census  taker.  Mrs. 
Delacy's  compliments,  therefore,  might  be  thought  a 
little  doubtful,  especially  by  ill-judging  people.  Miss 
Leighton  was  past  twenty-five,  and  of  course,  exempt 
by  the  laws  of  society  from  any  reference  to  the  number 
of  years  that  she  had  lived,  especially  by  her  friends. 
We  all  know  how  reluctantly  a  lady  enters  upon  each 
new  year,  after  she  has  passed  a  certain  period,  and  how 
indignantly  she  repels  any  allusion  to  her  age.  Sheridan 


120  THE   CROOKED  ELMJ 

has  somewhere  said,  that  she  counts  the  years  of  her 
life  in  this  wise :  "  Twenty-seven,  twenty-eight,  twenty- 
nine, —  sixty;"  but  I  am  disposed  to  believe  this  an 
unmitigated  slander  upon  the  sex.  Be  that  as  it  may, 
it  is  admitted  by  all,  that  a  lady's  age  should  never  be 
referred  to  after  a  certain  period  in  her  life,  and  this 
should  have  been  known  by  Mrs.  Delacy. 

Hastings  was  not  a  fool,  and  yet  he  never  saw,  or 
seemed  to  see,  the  bearing  of  these  left-handed  compli- 
ments. He  always  innocently  joined  in  praising  Miss 
Leighton.  He  extolled  her  beauty  and  her  many  supe- 
rior accomplishments,  and  in  various  ways  made  Mrs. 
Delacy  feel  extremely  uncomfortable.  He  was,  as  he 
thought,  acting  upon  the  justifiable  law  of  self-preser- 
vation. It  was  frequently  amusing  to  him  to  listen  to 
tne  conversation  between  the  Delacies  and  Miss  Leigh- 
ton.  One  evening,  when  they  were  ah1  seated  in  a  pri- 
vate box  at  Niblo's  Garden,  the  following  conversation 
took  place  immediately  after  the  first  act :  — 

"Mr.  Hastings,"  commenced  Miss  Leighton,  "you 

do  not  like  the  singing  of  Madame as  \vell  as 

you  do  that  of  Mademoiselle .  I  differ  with  you. 

I  think  she  is  her  superior  in  almost  every  respect.  I 
shall  begin  to  think  that  your  ear  for  music  is  not  so 

good  as  it  has  been  represented  to  be.  Madame 

sings  divinely  to-night,  and  her  acting,  —  how  true  to 
the  life  is  ;t  all!" 

Mrs.  Delacy,  without  giving  him  an  opportunity  to 
reply,  answered  :  — 

"  I  think,  Miss  Leighton,  that  Mr.  Hastings  is  right 

in  his  preference  for  Mademoiselle .  The  singing 

to-night  is  certainly  very  excellent ;  yet  I  think  she  does 
not  throw  enough  of  soul  into  the  music.  There  is  a 
want  of  that  sentiment  which  so  much  characterizes  the 
singing  of  Mademoiselle .  I  like  the  music  of  the 


OR,   LIFE  BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  121 

heart,  as  well  as  that  produced  by  the  harmony  of 
sounds."  Hastings  enjoyed  these  little  controversies 
exceedingly,  and  always  so  managed  that  neither  should 
carry  off  the  victory.  He  therefore  answered  in  his 
turn :  — 

"  I  confess,  Miss  Leighton,  that  I  have  nothing  more 
than  an  ordinarily  good  ear  for  music ;  and  if  you  have 
heard  to  the  contrary,  you  have  been  misinformed. 
Yet  it  is  sufficiently  good  to  appreciate  the  compliment 

you  have  so  lavishly  bestowed  upon  Madame 's 

singing  this  evening.  She  is  superior  to  her  rival  in 
many  respects;  and  yet  I  agree  with  Mrs.  Delacy  in 
thinking  that  she  is  not  equal  to  her  in  others.  I  can, 
therefore,  appreciate  what  you  have  both  said,  without 
subscribing  to  either." 

"  I  think,"  said  Miss  Delacy,  "  that  you  and  mother 
must  agree  with  Mr.  Hastings,  that  they  both  possess 
superior  musical  talent,  but  that  they  are  distinct  and 
different.  I  like  them  both  almost  equally  well,  and 
yet  I  think  1  prefer  a  very  little,  the  singing  of  Madem- 
oiselle   ." 

The  discussion  was  continued  by  them  all  until  the 
curtain  again  rose.  Miss  Delacy,  however,  had  the 
advantage  in  it  of  giving  her  opinion  last;  and  in 
consequence  it  was  not  greatly  different  from  that 
previously  expressed  by  Hastings.  Indeed,  she  was 
generally  satisfied  in  thinking  as  he  thought.  Miss 
Leighton  had  made  the  first  remark,  simply  to  draw 
Hastings  out  in  a  pleasant  discussion,  and  he  knew  the 
fact ;  Itmt  Mrs.  Delacy,  in  her  eagerness  to  have  the  tastes 
and  opinions  of  Miss  Leighton  conflict  with  those  of 
Hastings,  assailed  her  views  with  a  zeal  and  enthu- 
siasm which  carried  her  far  beyond  her  own  convictions. 
It  was  with  peculiar  pleasure  that  she  sought  indirectly 
11 


122  THE  CROOKED   ELM; 

to    convince    Hastings,   that    Miss   Leighton   had   not 

enough  of  soul  to  appreciate  Mademoiselle .    Thus 

would  they  generally  conduct  their  discussions.  Mrs. 
Delacy  could  not  see  things  exactly  as  Miss  Leighton 
saw  them.  There  was  always  a  difference  in  their 
opinions,  an  amiable  difference  of  course,  respecting 
almost  every  subject  upon  which  they  conversed,  when 
in  the  society  of  Hastings.  Miss  Delacy  being  the 
youngest  of  the  party,  and  not  very  well  versed  in  the 
artifices  and  intrigues  of  polite  society,  did  not  feel  so 
jealous  of  Miss  Leighton  as  her  mother  did.  She  left 
all  the  management  with  her  mother,  and  was  satisfied 
with  every  thing  and  everybody,  so  long  as  she  pleased 
Hastings.  Thus  matters  stood,  when  one  day  as  Mrs. 
Delacy  passed  through  Hastings'  room  she  saw  lying  on 
his  table  a  little  billet-doux.  She  looked  at  the  address, 
and  was  quite  sure  she  knew  the  hand  that  had  penned 
it.  "  The  writing  is  disguised,"  said  she  to  herself,  as 
she  looked  at  it  from  every  point  of  view.  Her  curi- 
osity was  excited.  "  Why,"  continued  she,  "  should 
Mrs.  Belmonte  write  to  Mr.  Hastings  ?  and  more  than 
all,  why  should  she  disguise  her  hand  ?  "  As  she  said 
this,  she  held  the  letter  up  between  herself  and  the  light, 
and  scrutinized  it  carefully  with  her  black  eyes.  She 
would  have  given  a  seat  at  the  opera  to  have  known 
what  it  contained  —  possibly  more.  Perhaps  she  even 
wished  to  open  it,  for  she  examined  carefully  the  seal- 
ingwax  that  locked  its  contents  from  her.  She  did  not 
open  it,  however,  but  laid  it  down  where  she  had  found  it, 
and  left  the  room  to  think.  She  began  to  put  this  and 
that  together.  When  she  had  seated  herself  in  her  own 
room,  she  muttered :  "  Now  I  think  of  it,  he  was  quite 
attentive  to  her  at  Saratoga.  Belmonte  left  her  in  his 
charge; — What  fools  some  men  are!  She  seemed 


OR,   LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  123 

pleased  with  his  attentions,  too.  No  longer  ago  than 
last  Monday  night,  he  accompanied  her  and  her  husband 
to  the  opera.  He  dines  out  of  late  much  oftener  than 
he  formerly  did.  I  will  look  into  this  matter.  There  is 
something  in  that  letter  which  she  does  not  wish  to 
have  known,  or  why  should  she  disguise  her  hand?  It's 
suspicious!  decidedly  suspicious,  to  say  the  least !" 

Thus  from  that  little  unoffending  letter  did  Mrs.  De- 
lacy's  imagination  take  wing,  and  in  a  remarkably  short 
time  it  had  flown  to  Saratoga  and  back  many  times. 
The  sparks  of  a  new  jealousy  had  been  kindled ;  and 
all  that  was  now  wanting  was  a  little  breeze  to  fan 
them  into  a  flame. 

Mrs.  Belmonte  had  called  upon  Mrs.  Delacy  once  or 
twice  since  her  return  from  Saratoga,  yet  she  did  not 
like  Mrs.  Delacy  much.  She  felt  as  if  she  never  could 
make  her  an  intimate  friend.  The  next  day  after  Mrs. 
Delacy  had  seen  the  little  billet-doux  lying  on  Hastings' ' 
table,  she  called  upon  Mrs.  Belmonte.  It  was  quite  late 
in  the  day,  and  when  she  went  in  she  found  Hastings 
there.  The  three  felt  a  little  embarrassed,  without  know- 
ing why.  Mrs.  Belmonte  instinctively  feared  that  the 
note  which  she  had  sent  to  Hastings  the  day  previous 
had  caused  Mrs.  Delacy's  present  visit.  Such  are 
woman's  fears,  when  she  for  the  first  time  does  that 
which  will  compromise  in  any  way  her  good  name. 
Mrs.  Belmonte  had  written  to  Hastings  to  invite  him  to 
dine  with  them  on  that  day.  She  had  done  so  at  the 
request  of  her  husband.  There  was  no  necessity  for 
disguising  her  handwriting,  and  yet  she  did  so  from 
fear  of  Mrs.  Delacy.  She  loved  Hastings,  and  for  that 
reason,  and  that  alone,  she  had  done  what  there  was  not 
the  slightest  necessity  for  doing,  and  what  at  once  awa- 
kened the  suspicions  of  the  only  person  whom  she  sought 
to  deceive.  Her  extreme  caution  and  nervousness  had 


124  THE  CKOOKED   ELM; 

betrayed  her  into  doing  what  was  in  itself  suspicious, 
and  what  was  capable  of  a  construction  very  unfavora- 
ble to  herself.  When  Mrs.  Delacy  called,  and  found 
Hastings  there  alone  with  Mrs.  Belmonte,  she  very  nat- 
urally supposed  that  he  had  called  at  that  hour,  because 
she  was  alone,  and  in  compliance  with  a  previous  un- 
derstanding between  them.  The  note  of  the  day  before, 
she  thought,  had  something  to  do  with  his  present  visit. 
She  did  not  hesitate  to  place  the  worst  construction 
possible  upon  the  simple  fact  of  his  being  there  alone 
with  her.  She  thought  that  Mrs.  Belmonte  looked  em- 
barrassed and  guilty.  Perhaps  she  was  right  in  think- 
ing so,  for  Mrs.  Belmonte  did  feel  a  little  guilty,  with- 
out inquiring  the  cause.  Mrs.  Delacy  did  not  remain 
long,  and  while  she  was  there  she  talked  and  laughed 
and  made  herself  as  agreeable  as  possible.  She  ob- 
served them  both  closely,  however,  and  tried  to  satisfy 
herself  as  to  whether  her  newly  awakened  suspicions 
were  well  grounded.  She  requested  Mrs.  Belmonte  to 
sing  and  play  something ;  and,  when  she  had  prevailed 
upon  her  to  take  a  seat  at  the  piano,  she  easily  detected 
the  unnatural  tremor  in  her  voice.  Mrs.  Belmonte  had 
not  finished  the  piece  which  she  first  commenced  before 
she  entirely  broke  down,  and  crimson  with  blushes,  ex- 
cused herself  by  saying  that  she  had  a  very  severe  cold. 
As  Mrs.  Delacy  rode  home  that  day,  she  said  to  her- 
self: "  How  confused  they  were,  to  be  sure !  That 
little  billet-doux  was  to  invite  him  to  call  when  her  hus- 
band would  be  absent.  She  could  not  sing  because  she 
had  a  severe  cold!  I  know,  Mrs.  Belmonte,  how  you 
caught  your  cold.  Cold,  indeed !  And  Hastings,  the 
deceitful!  Who  would  have  thought  him  guilty  of 
such  an  intrigue  ?  " 

Thus  was  Mrs.  Delacy  letting  her  new  jealousy  con- 
sume her  happiness  and  peace  of  mind.    She  no  longer 


OR,   LITE   BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  125 

thought  of  Miss  Leighton  as  a  rival ;  and  what  is  more 
strange  still,  she  began  to  coincide  with  her  in  almost 
all  her  views  on  all  subjects.  Mrs.  Delacy  pressed  Mrs. 
Belmonte,  when  she  left  her  on  the  day  mentioned,  to 
return  her  call  soon. 

"  Call  any  day  next  week,  Mrs.  Belmonte,"  said  she ; 
"  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  see  you.  If  you  do  not 
come  soon,  I  shall  be  very,  very  angry  with  you." 

Mrs.  Belmonte,  of  course,  promised  to  call.  I  fear, 
however,  that  she  had  no  intention  of  doing  so. 

Mrs.  Delacy  waited  patiently  for  a  few  days  to  receive 
Mrs.  Belmonte's  promised  visit;  but  days  lengthened 
into  weeks,  and  she  did  not  come.  She  could  wait  no 
longer.  Hastings  had  dined  out  during  the  three  weeks 
that  had  passed  no  less  than  four  times.  What  should 
she  do?  That  was  the  great  and  all-absorbing  ques- 
tion with  Mrs.  Delacy.  "  I  will,"  said  she,  after  much 
thinking,  "  give  a  dinner  party,  and  invite  Mrs.  Bel- 
monte and  that  blind  husband  of  hers.  If  there  is  one 
thing  more  than  another,"  continued  she,  indignantly, 
"  for  which  I  despise  a  man,  it  is  for  being  a  ninny  in 
the  management  of  his  household  affairs !  Belmonte  is 
called  handsome,  and  he  is  well  enough  looking ;  but, 
the  simpleton !  he  is  as  blind  as  a  beetle,  and  as  stupid 
as  an  owl  in  his  self-conceit !  I  despise  such  a  man 
from  the  bottom  of  my  heart!  I  do  not  blame  Mrs. 
Belmonte  for  her  preference ;  but  she  must  not  presume 
to  interfere  with  my  arrangements,  or  woe  is  she  !  No  ; 
Hastings  shall  marry  my  daughter,  or  I  will — "  At 
this  point  in  her.  soliloquy  the  door  bell  rang,  and  a 
servant  entered  with  Miss  Leighton's  card.  Mrs.  De- 
lacy descended  to  the  drawing-room  burning  with 
indignation,  leaving  her  pent-up  feelings  of  wrath  to 
smoulder  on. 

11* 


126  THE   CROOKED    ELM ; 

"  Why,  how  do  you  do,  Lib  ?  I  am  delighted  to  see 
you ! "  said  Mrs.  Delacy  as  she  met  Miss  Leighton.  "  1 
was  thinking  about  you  the  moment  before  you  rang 
the  bell.  Walk  up  to  my  private  parlor ;  I  have  some 
confidential  talk  for  your  ear  alone.  I  want  your  coun- 
sel in  a  little  matter,  of  which  I  have  been  thinking." 
When  the  two  were  seated  in  Mrs.  Delacy's  room,  she 
continued :  — 

"  I  am  going  to  give  a  little  dinner  party  to-morrow 
or  next  day.  Who  shall  I  invite  of  your  friends  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  friends,"  said  Miss  Leighton,  "  whom  I 
care  particularly  to  see  here  on  such  an  occasion.  Any 
arrangements  which  you  may  choose  to  make  will  be 
quite  satisfactory  to  me.  I  shall  be  pleased  to  meet 
any  guests  that  Mrs.  Delacy  would  invite  to  her 
house." 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  have  been  thinking  of,  Lib?" 

"  What  is  it,  pray  ?  " 

"  I  have  thought  that  we  might  have  a  little  amuse- 
ment at  Mr.  Hastings'  expense."  Miss  Leighton  was  all 
attention  as  soon  as  Hastings'  name  was  mentioned. 

"  What  do  you  propose  ? "  asked  she,  somewhat 
eagerly. 

"  I  have  concluded  to  invite  Mr.  Dillingscott  to  the 
party.  What  a  queer  name  ! "  said  Mrs.  Delacy,  laugh- 
ing. "  Excuse  me,  Lib,"  continued  she,  "  but  I  always 
have  to  laugh  when  I  think  of  him.  What  a  bundle  of 
conceit  behind  a  pair  of  whiskers !  Yet  they  say  he  is 
very  wealthy,  and  well  thought  of  among  his  acquaint- 
ances. I  will  invite  him.  You  and»jVIary  (Mrs.  Dela- 
cy's daughter)  must  be  particularly  polite  to  him.  That 
will  make  Hastings  jealous.  What  do  you  say  to  that, 
Lib?" 

Miss  Leighton  thought  it  a  very  disagreeable  propo- 


OR,  LIFE   BY   THE  WAY-SIDE.  127 

sition ;  yet  she  could  not"  well  refuse  to  cooperate  with 
her  friend.  So  she  said  :  — 

"  I  think  it  a  capital  suggestion !  capital ! " 

"  You  see,"  said  Mrs.  Delacy,  "  that  Mr.  Hastings 
only  wants  to  be  made  a  little  jealous,  and  then  he  will 
see  the  necessity  of  securing  you  from  his  would-be 
rivals.  He  is  too  confident  and  independent,  by  at  least 
one  half.  This  Dillingscott  was  quite  attentive  to  you 
at  the  Springs,  and  I  doubt  not  he  will  be  proud  at 
being  again  admitted  as  a  rival  for  your  smiles.  I  will 
see  that  all  is  managed  rightly.  You  and  Mary  must 
treat  Hastings  with  indifference,  and  be  charmed,  of 
course,  with  that  popinjay,  Dillingscott.  Do  you  un- 
derstand?" 

"  Perfectly,"  answered  Miss  Leighton. 

They  arranged  every  thing  to  suit  themselves,  and 
the  invitations  were  sent  out  to  Mrs.  Delacy's  intimate 
friends  to  attend  an  informal  dinner  party,  to  be  given 
two  nights  after  the  above  conversation.  The  day 
came,  and  about  twenty-five  of  Mrs.  Delacy's  friends 
had  assembled  at  her  house.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Belmonte 
were  among  the  number,  —  so  also  was  Mr.  Dillings- 
cott. Every  thing  went  merrily  along,  —  all  seemed  in 
good  spirits.  Even  Mrs.  Belmonte  felt  unusually  gay 
and  happy.  Mrs.  Delacy  was  so  polite  to  her,  so  agree- 
able, so  attentive,  that  she  forgot  her  fears,  and  almost 
began  to  like  her.  Dinner  was  over,  and  all  had  assem- 
bled in  the  brilliantly  lit  drawing-room.  Hastings  had 
attended  Mrs.  Belmonte  to  the  table,  —  Dillingscott  had 
waited  upon  Miss  Leighton,  and  Belmonte  upon  Miss 
Delacy.  It  is  but  justice  to  say  that  Miss  Delacy  did 
not  enter  into  her  mother's  plans  without  feelings  of  re- 
luctance. Miss  Leighton  had  very  little  heart  for  the 
"  very  good  joke,"  as  Mrs.  Delacy  was  pleased  to  call  it, 


128  THE   CKOOKED   ELM  J 

but  she  was  determined  to  act  up  to  the  programme  in 
every  particular. 

Soon  after  they  had  assembled  in  the  drawing-room, 
Mrs.  Delacy  escorted  Mr.  Dillingscott  up  to  where  Miss 
Leighton  was  sitting,  and  requested  that  they  would 
lead  off  in  a  quadrille.  They  did  as  asked,  and  Mr. 
Belmonte  immediately  followed  them  with  Miss  Delacy 
as  his  partner,  while  Hastings  danced  with  Mrs.  Bel- 
monte. Mr.  Dillingscott  was  all  attention  to  Miss 
Leighton,  and  she  all  smiles  to  him ;  but  Hastings 
knew  nothing  of  the  fact ;  he  was  too  much  interested 
in  Mrs.  Belmonte  to  see  any  one  else.  Poor  Miss  De- 
lacy looked  very  much  like  pouting,  during  the  early 
part  of  the  evening ;  she  thought  it  was  a  very  stupid 
party,  take  it  all  together.  Hastings  enjoyed  himself 
more  than  he  had  done  before  for  many  a  long  day  at 
such  an  entertainment.  Mrs.  Belmonte  was  delighted. 
Her  countenance  reflected  a  heart  all  joy  —  all  happi- 
ness, as  she  conversed  with  Hastings.  She  received 
more  of  his  attentions  than  any  other  one  there,  and  that 
gave  her  infinite  pleasure.  The  only  unhappy  ones 
were  Mrs.  Delacy,  her  daughter,  and  Miss  Leighton. 
Mr.  Dillingscott  danced  the  second  set  with  Mrs.  Bel- 
monte, and  Hastings  took  Miss  Delacy  as  his  second 
partner.  She  for  a  few  minutes  did  as  her  mother  had 
instructed  her,  but  she  could  not  hold  out  long;  she 
yielded  to  her  feelings,  and  never  made  herself  more 
agreeable  in  her  life  to  Hastings  than  she  did  during 
the  remainder  of  the  evening.  She  was  too  delighted 
with  his  agreeable  society  to  heed  the  winks  and  expres- 
sions of  anger  of  her  mother.  Miss  Leighton  was  now 
in  trouble  enough.  She  thought  that  Mrs.  Delacy  was 
plotting  to  displace  her  in  the  good  opinion  of  Hastings. 
She  became  immediately  reserved  and  cold  to  Mr.  Dil- 


OR,  LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  129 

lingscott,  so  much  so  that  he  thought  he  had  in  some 
way  unwittingly  offended  her.  He  sought  her  out  for 
an  explanation ;  but  was,  very  unsatisfactorily  to  him- 
self, "  snubbed "  by  her.  She  was  peevish,  veied,  and 
decidedly  "  out  of  spirits."  Mrs.  Delacy  was  angry  at 
her  daughter,  who  had  so  unfeelingly  upset  all  her  plans. 
She  was  annoyed  to  see  how  Miss  Leighton  construed 
her,  and  unhappy  to  see  Hastings  and  Mrs.  Belmonte 
enjoying  themselves  so  well.  As  the  party  was  about 
breaking  up,  Hastings  said,  in  the  presence  of  sev- 
eral :  — 

"  Mrs.  Delacy,  this  is  what  I  call  a  dinner  party. 
None  of  your  stiff,  clumsy  affairs,  but  a  genuine  old- 
fashioned  sociable  entertainment.  In  fact  you  never 
half  do  things ;  what  you  undertake  you  always  ac- 
complish." 

"  I  am  happy,  Mr.  Hastings,"  said  Mrs.  Delacy,  smil- 
ingly, "  that  you  have  enjoyed  the  evening  so  much.  If 
my  other  friends  have  been  so  well  entertained  I  shall 
feel  highly  nattered." 

"  Look  at  their  faces,"  said  Hastings.  "  Don't  they 
'tell,'  as  we  sometimes  say,  as  though  they  had  made 
an  evening  of  it?  My  friend  Dillingscott,"  continued 
he,  laying  his  hand  on  Dillingscott's  arm,  "is  the  only  one 
present  whose  face  isn't  all  sunshine.  I  think  he  must 
have  lost  some  dear  relative,  or  he  certainly  would  look 
less  grave." 

"  You  are  facetious,  Hastings,"  said  Dillingscott,  with 
an  effort  to  look  happy.  "  I  leave  it  to  Mrs.  Delacy 
whether  mine  is  not  the  more  smiling  face  of  the 
two." 

"  That  is  a  question,"  said  Mrs.  Delacy,  "  which  I 
must  leave  for  the  young  ladies  to  decide."  The  party 
at  length  broke  up,  and  Hastings  took  Miss  Leighton 
home  in  his  carriage.  As  soon  as  they  had  all  gone, 


130  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

Mrs.  Delacy  requested  her  daughter  to  accompany  her 
to  her  private  room. 

"  I  wish  to  know,"  said  the  mother  when  they  were 
alone, "  why  you  disobeyed  my  wishes  ?  "  The  daughter 
stood  pouting  without  answering  her.  "  I  never  knew 
you  to  act  so  stupidly  in  my  life,"  continued  the  mother. 
"  I  would  have  a  little  more  pride  and  self-respect,  and 
not  be  made  a  tool  of  by  Mr.  Hastings." 

"  You  never  said  any  thing  to  me  before  against  Mr. 
Hastings,"  said  the  daughter,  "  and  what  has  he  done 
now  to  make  me  treat  him  other  than  I  have  been 
accustomed  to  ?  I  think  you  are  very  unreasonable  and 
cruel,  so  I  do ! "  Here  she  burst  into  tears  and  con- 
tinued, —  "I  won't  offend  Mr.  Hastings,  so  I  won't ! 
He  is  kind  to  me,  and  treats  me  politely,  and  why 
should  I  be  so  unnatural  ?  You  and  Miss  Leighton  are 
always  trying  to  annoy  me,  so  you  are ! " 

The  mother  could  say  no  more.  She  had  to  nurse  her 
disappointment  as  best  she  could.  Her  plans  had 
failed  —  clouds  appeared  in  the  horizon  of  her  imagi- 
nation —  threatening  clouds  —  would  they  disappear, 
or  would  they  thicken  and  grow  darker  ? 


CHAPTER    XI. 


HASTINGS'  old  friend  Collingwood  was  still  living  in 
Virginia.  He  had  a  beautiful  country-seat,  situated  on 
a  small  river  nearly  in  the  heart  of  the  Old  Dominion, 
or,  as  it  is  sometimes  called,  the  Mother  of  States. 
Like  most  Englishmen  of  the  better  classes  who  emi- 
grate to  the  Southern  States,  he  soon  became  reconciled 
to  the  "  institution  "  of  negro  slavery.  For,  objection- 
able and  wrong  as  slavery  is  in  the  United  States,  it 
finds  a  rival  in  the  servitude  of  the  poor  in  England 
and  Ireland.  Both  are  obnoxious  to  the  spirit  of  free 
governments,  and  opposed  to  enlightened  ideas  of  right. 
The  wealthy  and  titled  in  England  occupy  the  position 
of  masters  over  the  poor  in  that  country,  in  almost  as 
absolute  a  sense  as  the  slave-owners  of  Virginia  do 
over  their  negroes.  This  is  not  said  in  mitigation  of 
negro  slavery,  but  to  show  the  reader  that  Mr.  Colling- 
wood readily  conformed  to  the  customs  and  habits  of 
a  country  not  entirely  dissimilar  in  its  laws  to  his  own. 
He  was  an  easy,  rather  indolent,  yet  in  all  respects 
a  gentlemanly  and  an  honorable  man.  He  always 
had  friends  surrounding  him  because  they  loved  him. 
His  House  was  open  to  all,  and  his  hospitality  was  in 
keeping  with  his  kind  and  benevolent  feelings.  His 
ideas  of  birth  and  blood  were  theoretically  those  of  his 
countrymen  generally,  because  he  had  himself  descended 

(131) 


132  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

from  a  titled  ancestry.  But  practically  he  was  a  re- 
publican. The  poor  as  well  as  the  rich  found  in  him  a 
companion  and  friend.  None  who  were  in  need  left  his 
house  empty-handed.  In  short,  he  was  a  fit  represent- 
ative of  Virginia  hospitality  and  generous,  noble  feeling. 
Mrs.  Collingwood  was  affectionate,  kind-hearted,  and 
in  all  respects  an  excellent  and  exemplary  mother.  She 
had  more  heart  than  intellect,  without  being  at  all 
deficient  in  the  latter.  She  loved  her  husband,  and  in 
almost  all  things  conformed  to  his  views  and  wishes. 
They  had  but  the  one  child,  the  little  boy  mentioned  in 
a  previous  chapter.  He  was  now  eleven  years  old,  and 
was,  as  he  ever  had  been  from  his  birth,  an  idol  of  them 
both.  He  was  tall  for  his  age,  rather  slender,  and 
straight  as  an  Indian.  His  hair  and  eyes  were  dark ; 
and  in  every  respect  he  was  a  handsome  boy.  He  was 
naturally  dignified  and  independent,  and  withal  had  a 
generous  and  noble  heart.  Never  having  associated 
much  with  children  of  his  own  age,  he  acted  more  like 
a  man  than  he  did  like  a  boy  of  his  years.  He  had 
been  accustomed  to  command  his  father's  slaves,  and 
to  have  all  his  wishes  gratified.  The  slaves  loved  him, 
and  indulged  him  as  freely  in  hft  wants  and  likes  as 
did  his  parents;  nor  did  they  always  go  unrewarded, 
for  Harry  Collingwood  often  found  means  of  repaying 
their  love  and  good  feeling  for  him  —  sometimes  by 
persuading  his  father  to  give  them  a  holiday,  and  some- 
times by  influencing  his  mother  to  gratify  their  wishes. 
He  was  the  pet  of  all  who  knew  him,  which  naturally 
enough  made  him  a  little  proud,  and  gave  him  a  good 
opinion  of  himself.  His  mother  loved  him  with  all  her 
heart.  Harry  was  her  religion  —  her  all  of  happiness. 
He,  too,  loved  her  in  return,  and  took  pride  in  walking 
with  her  in  the  fields  and  pleasure-grounds  as  her  guide 
and  protector.  He  never  was  so  happy  as  when  he  fan- 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  133 

cied  that  she  looked  to  him  for  protection  from  danger. 
One  day,  when  he  and  she  were  driving  out,  the  horse 
became  restive,  and  the  mother  in  her  fright  tried  to 
take  the  reins  from  him,  when  he  said,  confidently :  — 

"  Never  mind,  mother,  I'll  manage  old  Jack,  and  see 
that  you  are  not  harmed." 

Harry  was  bold,  proud,  and  had  feelings  beyond  his 
years.  As  he  and  his  mother  were  returning  one  pleas- 
ant afternoon  from  a  somewhat  longer  drive  than  usual, 
they  met  a  man  and  little  girl  walking  in  the  thick 
shade  of  some  tall  trees  that  lined  the  road.  When 
they  had  passed  by  them,  Harry  said :  — 

"  Mother,  do  you  know  who  that  man  is  ?  Is  n't  that 
little  girl  pretty ! " 

"  I  think,"  replied  she,  "  that  is  the  stranger  who 
bought  Mr.  Draper's  farm  last  fall." 

"  I  wonder  if  it  is  n't  ?  "  said  Harry.  "  Did  you  see 
what  a  pretty  face  the  little  girl  had?  and  such  beauti- 
ful curls !  I  wish  we  knew  them,  mother." 

"  I  think,  Harry,  that  her  curls  were  too  long,  —  they 
hung  down  too  far  on  her  shoulders."  This  the  mother 
said  to  draw  her  son  out. 

"  That  is  just  what  I  like,"  said  Harry,  while  his  eyes 
gljstened  with  the  enthusiasm  which  the  subject  awak- 
ened. "  And  that  broad-brimmed  hat  —  how  well  it 
looked  on  her,  to  be  sure ! " 

"  I  think,  Harry,  that  you  are  quite  enthusiastic  when 
talking  about  the  little  girls.  There  is  little  Lizzie  Rob- 
inson ^  you  recollect  how  you  praised  her  the  other 
day." 

"  Lizzie  Robinson ! "  said  Harry,  "  why,  mother,  she 
never  looked  so  sweet  and  pretty  as  the  little  girl  we 
have  just  met." 

"  I  am  afraid,  Harry,"  said  she,  still  leading  him  on, 
12 


134  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

"  that  Lizzie  would  not  feel  flattered  could  she  hear  you 
say  so." 

"  Well,  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  her  now,"  said  he, 
impatiently.  "  I  wish  we  had  spoken  to  the  man." 

"  You  mean  to  the  little  girl,"  said  the  mother,  enjoy- 
ing her  son's  awakened  curiosity  to  know  who  tho 
strangers  were. 

"  Mother,  you  are  very  provoking!"  said  Harry,  ihdig- 
nantly.  "  You  know  I  don't  care  any  thing  about  thu 
little  girls." 

She  now  thought  she  had  pressed  the  matter  far 
enough,  so  she  said :  — 

"  I  think  that  is  the  man  who  lives  where  Mr.  Diaper 
did.  They  say  he  does  not  visit  his  neighbors  much." 

"  Why  don't  he,  mother  ?  I  should  think  they  would 
be  lonely.  If  they  are  strangers  here,  it  would  be  right 
in  father  to  invite  them  to  come  and  see  us  and  get  ac 
quainted."  The  mother  saw  the  real  cause  of  Harry's 
interest  in  the  strangers ;  but  she  was  too  fond  of  him  to 
tease  him  further. 

"We  ought,"  continued  Harry,  "to  get  acquainted 
with  them ;  it  is  our  duty  —  don't  you  think  so,  moth- 
er?" 

"  Perhaps  so,"  said  she ;  "  but  we  don't  know  who 
they  are." 

"I  am  sure  he  is  a  gentleman,"  replied  he.  "He 
looks  like  one.  I  will  tell  father  about  them  when  we 
get  home,  and  may  be  he  will  invite  them  to  come  and 
see  us.  Do  you  think  he  will,  mother  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know ;  you  can  ask  him." 

"  But  won't  you  ask  him  ?  "  said  Harry.  "  Father  don't 
care  about  what  I  say  to  him.  Perhaps,  if  I  asked  him 
to  invite  them,  he  would  only  laugh ;  you  must  speak  to 
him  about  it,  and  press  him  to  have  them  come  and  see 
us ;  will  you  ?  " 


OR,    LIFE   BY    THE   WAY-SIDE.  135 

The  mother  consented,  and  Harry  was  all  anxiety  to 
know  what  his  father  would  do  in  the  matter.  His 
head  was  filled  with  the  pretty  face  and  curly  hair  of 
the  beautiful  girl  he  had  so  unexpectedly  seen.  Often 
did  he  remind  his  mother  of  her  promise  to  intercede 
with  his  father  to  have  the  strangers  visit  them.  Mrs. 
Collingwood  had  already  spoken  to  her  husband  about 
the  wishes  of  Harry,  and  had  initiated  him  into  the 
secret  of  her  son's  anxiety  in  the  matter.  He  at  once 
consented  to  gratify  Harry;  yet  he  wished  to  amuse 
himself  a  little  at  his  son's  expense.  So,  one  day,  he 
said  to  Mrs.  Collingwood  in  Harry's  presence :  — 

"  I  think,  my  dear,  we  will  invite  the  stranger  whom 
you  met  the  other  day  and  his  wife  to  make  us  a  visit ; 
and,  to  make  it  the  more  pleasant  for  them,  we  will  ask 
some  of  our  neighbors  to  meet  them  here." 

Harry  was  now  in  trouble.  He  thought  that  he 
would  not  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  curly-headed 
little  beauty  after  ah1.  The  fear  of  losing  so  golden  an 
opportunity,  however,  at  length  made  him  bold,  and  he 
said :  — 

"  But,  father,  you  might  ask  them  to  bring  their  iittle 
boys  and  girls.  You  know  Mr.  Robinson  always  brings 
his,  and  it  would  be  pleasant  for  them  to  play  together. 
This  skilful  diplomacy  on  the  part  of  Harry  caused  his 
father  to  look  knowingly  at  Mrs.  Collingwood  and 
smile  while  he  said  :  — 

"  Oh !  you  told  me  something  about  a  little  curly- 
headed  girl  whom  Harry  fell  in  love  with  at  first  sight. 
How  Is  this,  my  son  ?  "  This  was  too  much  for  the 
proud  boy's  sensitive  feeling,  and  he  left  the  room  as  he 
said,  — 

"  Mother  is  always  talking  some  of  her  nonsense 
about  me,  and  saying  things  that  she  has  no  business 
to  say."  As  he  said  this,  he  closed  the  door  and  walked 


136  THE   CKOOKED    ELM; 

away  from  the  house  indignantly.  As  soon  as  he  had 
gone,  Mrs.  Collingwood  said :  — 

"  My  dear,  why  do  you  tease  the  child  so  ?  You  make 
him  quite  unhappy,  and  he  blames  me  for  it  all." 

"  I  did  not  know  that  he  was  so  tender  on  the  sub- 
ject," replied  he,  laughing.  "  Well,  Harry  must  be  grat- 
ified," continued  he,  "  and  I  will  say  nothing  further  to 
him  on  the  subject  of  his  love."  The  mother  was  care- 
ful to  inform  Harry  that  they  had  invited  all  the  family, 
and  as  far  as  possible  she  made  him  forget  what  his 
father  had  said.  The  thought  of  soon  seeing  the  little 
beauty  made  the  anxious  boy  as  happy  as  he  had  been 
miserable.  It  was  only  when  in  his  father's  and  mother's 
company  that  he  felt  a  little  uncomfortable.  He  knew 
what  his  father  was  thinking  about,  and  sometimes  he 
could  see  him  give  Mrs.  Collingwood  a  peculiar  look, 
when  any  thing  was  said  of  the  coming  visit  of  the 
strangers. 

Invitations  had  been  sent  to  Mr.  Collingwood's 
friends  to  visit  him  on  a  certain  afternoon.  The 
strangers  living  on  Mr.  Draper's  place  had  been  invited 
also,  and  had  accepted  the  invitation.  Harry  was  now 
all  on  tiptoe  with  excitement  and  anticipation.  He 
longed  to  have  the  day  come  when  he  should  see  the 
little  girl  again.  Never  before  had  old  time  seemed  so 
lazy  in  his  tread.  He  tried  in  all  kinds  of  ways  to  hasten 
him  along,  but  to  no  purpose.  As  the  day  drew  near, 
he  began  to  plot  and  plan  as  to  how  he  should  enter- 
tain her  when  she  came.  He  wondered  whether  she 
was  fond  of  riding,  or  walking,  or  reading,  or  singing. 
In  short,  his  head  was  filled  full  of  conjectures,  curiosity, 
and  anxiety.  When  he  laid  his  head  down  at  night, 
his  eyes  refused  to  close  until  his  mind  had  gone  over 
and  over  again  all  his  promised  pleasures. 

The  day  at  last  came,  and  Harry  was  up  early  to  see 


OR,  LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  137 

its  commencement.  He  had  beaten  the  sun  in  rising 
at  least  half  an  hour,  and  before  ten  o'clock  he  was 
anxious  to  be  putting  on  his  best  clothes  for  the  coming 
occasion.  He  called  Aunt  Rose,  a  colored  house-ser- 
vant, and  repaired  to  his  dressing-room.  It  was  a  long 
time  before  he  could  decide  what  to  put  on.  He  first 
took  out  of  his  chest  a  white  pair  of  pantaloons,  white 
vest,  and  blue  jacket;  and  then,  putting  them  back,  he 
took  out  something  else. 

"  Lor5  bless  us !  what 's  in  Massa  Harry's  head  ?  "  said 
Aunt  Rose,  as  she  watched  his  proceedings.  "  He  fuss 
takes  out  de  blue  jacket,  den  he  takes  out  de  white 
jacket,  and  den  he  displaces  'em  all  back  agin,  jis  as  dey 
was  afore."  Here  she  laughed,  and  continued  to  look 
at  the  perplexed  Harry.  He  sent  Rose  to  his  mother 
twice  to  ask  her  what  he  had  better  wear.  He  thought 
that  a  jacket  was  too  boyish  for  one  of  his  years,  and 
one  so  capable  of  taking  care  of  himself.  But  his  mother 
had  not  provided  him  with  a  coat,  so  there  was  no  al- 
ternative —  he  must  wear  a  jacket.  He  tried  on  his 
clothes,  and  anxiously  questioned  Aunt  Rose  as'  to  how 
they  fitted  him,  until  the  old  negress  was  full  to  over- 
flowing with  mirth. 

"  Why,  Massa  Harry,"  said  she,  encouragingly,  "  you 
is  jis  de  bes  looking  gem'man  in  ole  Virginny."  At 
this  point  she  giggled  a  little  to  herself,  and  then  con- 
tinued. "  Little  Lizzie  Robinson  —  won't  she  roll  up 
de  whites  ob  her  eyes  when  she  sees  you !  he,  he,  he  ! " 

Harry  did  not  like  these  compliments  very  well.  He 
thought  that  Rose  treated  him  too  much  like  a  child,  so 
he  said :  — 

"  Rose,  you  old  fool,  can't  you  keep  your  mouth  shut, 
and  help  me  to  dress  ?  " 

Rose  did  keqp  her  mouth  shut  for  a  little  while ;  but 
12* 


138  THE   CROOKED   ELM  J 

there  was  a  comical  expression  in  her  eyes  which  Harry 
did  not  more  than  half  like,  although  he  pretended  not 
to  notice  her.  He  was  nearly  dressed,  after  at  least  an 
hour's  effort  to  please  himself  in  the  selection  of  his 
clothes.  He  was  looking  anxiously  in  the  glass,  as  he 
tried  to  adjust  his  cravat.  He  had  tied  and  untied  it 
at  least  a  dozen  times,  when  his  eyes  met  those  of  Aunt 
Rose,  who  stood  behind  him,  scarcely  able  to  keep  down 
her  risible  propensity.  He  turned  and  ordered  her  out 
of  the  room ;  but  he  could  not  change  the  humorous  ex- 
pression of  her  face.  She  left  him,  however;  but  as  she 
walked  away  she  would  giggle  and  look  sidewise  out 
of  her  large  white  eyes.  This  annoyed  him,  and  he 
muttered,  as  soon  as  he  was  rid  of  her :  "  They  all 
treat  me  like  a  child.  Am  I  not  eleven  years  and  two 
months  old !  I  '11  show  them  that  I  won't  put  up  with 
such  treatment !  And  old  Rose,  the  fool !  she  must 
laugh  and  giggle  because  1  wish  to  dress  as  becomes 
one  of  my  years.  I'll  teach  her  that  I  am  somebody, 
one  of  these  days ;  mind  if  I  don't !  "  His  indignation 
was  aroused,  and  his  dignity  very  much  hurt,  at  all  the 
checks  thus  given  to  it.  When  he  had  finished  dressing, 
he  hesitated  before  he  could  make  up  his  mind  to  ap- 
pear in  the  presence,  of  his  father  and  mother ;  but  it 
was  early  yet,  and  he  must  go  through  the  dreaded 
ordeal.  When  he  went  down  to  where  they  were,  he 
passed  Aunt  Rose,  who  still  wore  the  same  comical 
face  that  she  had  done  when  she  left  him  in  his  dressing- 
room.  He  did  not  seem  to  see  her,  however,  but  passed 
indignantly  by,  and  walked  into  the  parlor.  His  father 
and  mother  tried  to  make  him  feel  easy  and  happy. 
They  had  annoyed  him  enough  already.  They  saw  his 
embarrassment,  and  resolved  not  to  tease  him  more. 
The  company  at  length  assembled,  including  the  stran- 


OR,   LIFE   BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  139 

ger  and  the  little  girl  with  the  sweet  face  and  curly 
hair. 

T  will  now  go  back  to  where  I  left  little  Flora.  Merle 
continued  to  visit  her  in  the  cave,  and  spend  most  of  his 
time  with  her  for  more  than  a  week.  While  he  was  in 
her  presence,  he  would  resolve  to  protect  and  save  her ; 
but  as  soon  as  he  was  alone,  he  would  think  of  his  obli- 
gations to  be  faithful  in  the  performance  of  his  contract. 
His  mind  wavered  —  he  thought  of  the  wrongs  he  had 
received,  and  his  old  feelings  of  despair  and  wretched- 
ness returned  to  him.  He  had  been  talking  with  Flora 
for  several  hours,  one  day.  Her  innocent  heart  and 
sweet  words  seemed  to  bring  back  to  him  his  better 
self.  He  thought  of  his  innocent  and  happy  boyhood. 
There  was  something  in  the  little  girl's  looks  and  voice 
which  his  heart  could  not  contend  against.  He  had  al- 
ready told  her  that  there  was  a  man  who  had  sought  to 
carry  her  away  from  her  grandpapa's,  and  perhaps  take 
her  life.  He  had  made  her  believe  that  she  would  prob- 
ably be  killed  if  she  was  taken  back  top  the  old  man's 
again.  Although  it  cost  little  Flora 'much  bitter  cry- 
ing to  think  of  leaving  her  grandpapa,  yet  she  beg- 
ged Merle  to  take  her  out  of  that  dark  room,  and  let  her 
live  with  him.  He  had  won  her  feelings  —  she  believed 
him  to  be  good  —  she  was  tired  of  being  shut  up  in  that 
gloomy  place. 

"  Oh,  take  me  away  with  you  to  some  place !  I  will 
love  you  very  much  if  you  will,"  she  said  to  him,  from 
the  depths  of  her  heart. 

She'  plead  so  earnestly  and  so  lovingly,  that  Merle 
said  to  her :  — 

"  If  I  take  you  out  of  here,  Flora,  and  take  you  far 
away,  will  you  live  with  me  and  love  me  ?  Will  you  stay 
with  me  until  you  grow  up  to  be  big,  if  I  will  then  bring 
you  back  to  your  grandpapa  ?  " 


140  THE  CROOKED   ELM  J 

"  Oh,  do  take  me  away  !  J  will  love  you  very  much ! " 
^he  said,  as  she  stood  by  his  side,  with  her  little  arm 
round  his  neck.  He  pressed  her  to  him,  and  said  :  — 

"  "Well,  Flora,  we  will  leave  here  to-night.  I  will  go 
with  you  to  where  there  are  beautiful  flowers,  and  where 
the  sun  shines  warm  and  pleasant  —  where  there  are 
shady  trees  and  pleasant  fields,  and  little  birds  to  sing  to 
you.  And,  Flora,  I  will  get  you  another  dog,  like  the 
Rover  which  you  so  much  loved ;  and  I  will,  when  you 
grow  to  be  big,  bring  you  back  to  your  grandpapa." 

She  was  all  smiles  and  attention,  until  her  dog's 
name  was  mentioned,  when  she  burst  into  tears,  and 
said :  — 

"  You  are  very  good  to  promise  me  so  many  fine 
things,  but  I  do  not  want  another  dog,  please.  Rover 
might  not  like  me  to  have  one.  I  am  sure  I  never 
should  love  another  dog  as  much  as  I  love  Rover." 

Merle  was  affected  almost  to  tears  as  she  thus,  in  all 
the  simplicity  of  innocence,  showed  her  continued  love 
for  her  old  companion.  He  had  been  the  cause  of  her 
dog's  death ;  but  hever  before  had  he  known  how  much 
heartfelt  sorrow  he  had  given  her  in  taking  its  life. 

"  Flora,"  said  he,  "  you  must  call  me  your  papa,  and 
I  will  try  to  be  a  father  to  you." 

"•I  shall  be  so  glad  to  call  you  papa.  I  never  have 
called  any  body  papa  yet." 

"  Is  your  father  dead  ?  "  asked  Merle,  (or  Moulton,  as 
I  shall  from  this  onward  call  nim). 

"  Yes,  sir ;  grandpapa  told  me  that  my  father  and 
mother  were  both  dead  —  that  they  died  when  I  was  a 
little  baby." 

"  I  will  be  your  father,  then,  and  you  must  be  my  little 
daughter.  I  will  try  to  be  good  to  you,  and  I  hope  to 
make  you  happy.  When  we  go  away  from  here,  you 
must  never  speak  about  being  shut  up  in  this  dark  place 


OR,   LIFE    BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  141 

to  any  one,  nor  about  being  taken  away  from  your 
grandpapa." 

"  I  won't  speak  to  anybody  about  it.  I  will  do  what 
you  tell  me,"  said  she,  with  tears  in  her  eyes  at  the 
thought  of  leaving  her  old  home. 

Every  thing  was  arranged,  and  Moulton,  together  with 
little  Flora  and  Aunt  Judy,  left  the  dark  cave  early  that 
evening.  They  first  went  to  New  York,  and  without 
stopping  proceeded  on  to  Virginia,  where  we  have 
already  found  them.  They  lived  in  comparative  seclu- 
sion for  several  months;  but  in  the  spring,  when  the 
weather  was  warm,  Moulton,  thinking  that  there  could 
be  no  further  danger,  began  to  venture  abroad ;  and  he, 
with  Flora  by  his  side,  might  have  been  seen  almost 
every  day  wandering  about  the  rMds  and  through  the 
shaded  woods.  They  gathered  flowers,  and  listened  to 
the  little  singing  birds,  and  in  many  ways  enjoyed  the 
free  country  air. 

I  will  not  enter  into  the  history  of  the  months  which 
they  had  already  passed  in  Virginia.  It  is  sufficient  to 
say,  that  Moulton  had  been  reformed  —  thoroughly  re- 
formed, by  the  influence  of  little  Flora ;  and  every  night 
they  kneeled  together  in  prayer,  just  as  she  and  her 
grandpapa  had  done  before.  Flora  had  a  little  room  of 
her  own  in  the  beautiful  house  where  they  lived.  She 
repaired  to  it  every  day ;  nor  did  she  forget  to  kneel  on 
her  little  stool,  which  stood  by  her  work-table,  and  pray 
the  prayer  which  she  had  so  often  prayed  at  the  head 
of  Rover's  grave.  She  also  prayed  for  her  grandpapa, 
and  asked  the  Lord  to  take  care  of  him  until  she  grew 
to  be  big.  She  loved  Moulton  and  Aunt  Judy,  and 
they  both  sought  to  make  her  happy.  Aunt  Judy 
loved  her  as  much  as  she  could  have  done  had  Flora 
been  her  own  child.  When  Moulton  was  invited  to 
make  the  visit  to  Mr.  Collingwood's,  he  accepted  the 


142  THE   CROOKED   ELM. 

invitation  because  he  thought  it  would  be  pleasant  for 
Flora.  He  had  been  informed  in  the  note  of  invitation 
that  there  would  be  children  at  the  party,  and  he  thought 
it  would  only  be  right  to  give  his  little  charge  the  oppor- 
tunity of  associating  with  those  of  her  own  age.  Her 
welfare  and  happiness  were  all  that  he  sought.  They 
were  the  only  objects  for  which  he  lived.  He  seemed 
to  think  that  in  treating  her  well  he  atoned  in  some 
little,  for  the  crimes  he  had  committed.  She  had 
awakened  him  again  to  his  better  thoughts.  He  for- 
gave every  one  for  the  wrongs  they  had  done  him,  and 
sought  to  bury  his  troubles  in  the  consciousness  of  now 
doing  what  he  conceived  to  be  right.  Flora  seemed  to 
him  to  have  been  placed  in  his  way  to  reform  him. 
She  was  his  guardian  angel  to  guide  him  in  the  path  of 
innocence,  —  in  the  path  of  duty.  He  was  often  made 
unhappy,  when  he  thought  over  his  past  life.  A  gloomy 
melancholy  followed  him  and  clouded  his  mind  con- 
tinually when  he  was  alone.  It  was  only  when  with 
little  Flora  that  he  could  get  rid  of  his  troubled 
thoughts.  He  loved  her  better,  far  better  than  he  loved 
himself. 

On  the  day  of  the  party  at  Mr.  Collingwood's,  Aunt 
Judy  and  a  colored  servant  were  long  in  preparing  little 
Flora  for  the  occasion.  Her  hair  was  curled  in  the 
prettiest  way.  Her  bonnet  was  trimmed  gayly  with 
natural  flowers,  and  she  was  in  all  respects,  when  she 
sat  out  for  the  party  in  the  buggy  with  Moulton,  a 
sweet  and  prettily  dressed  Flora.  Her  large  blue  eyes 
looked  as  lovely  and  as  bright  as  when  we  first  met  her 
on  the  little  hillock  playing  with  her  old  friend  Rover. 
She  was  happy,  and  loved  Moulton  as  much  as  she  had 
ever  loved  her  grandpapa.  She  was  a  child — and  like 
a  child,  her  mind  was  flexible  and  easily  moulded  to 
circumstances. 


CHAPTER    XII. 


MOULTON,  for  the  better  protection  of  little  Flora, 
took  the  name  of  Mowbray,  when  he  went  to  Virginia. 
He  feared  detection,  not  for  his  own  sake,  but  for  her's. 
He  resolved  never,  under  any  circumstances,  to  deliver 
her  up  to  any  one,  save  to  the  old  man  from  whom  she 
had  been  taken.  I  have  said  that  he  and  Flora  had 
gone  by  invitation  to  Mr.  Collingwood's.  He  had  been 
presented  to  the  company  assembled  there,  and  was 
soon  engaged  with  his  neighbors  in  an  easy  and  familiar 
conversation.  The  party  was  free  of  that  ceremony 
and  formality  which  characterize  assemblages  of  the 
kind  in  cities.  Each  one  amused  himself  in  his  own 
way,  and  in  accordance  with  his  own  tastes.  Some 
were  seated  on  the  long  piazza,  others  were  strolling  or 
lounging  under  the  trees  which  surrounded  the  house. 
Later  in  the  day,  backgammon,  chess,  and  whist  were 
introduced ;  and  all  made  themselves  agreeable,  sociable, 
and  happy,  as  they  played  at  the  different  games,  and 
imbibed  the  sparkling  champagne  which  was  freely  cir- 
culated among  them.  They  seemed  to  enjoy,  in  the 
real  old  Virginia  way,  the  hospitality  of  their  host  and 
hostess.  The  little  girls  and  boys,  while  in  the  presence 
of  their  parents,  were  somewhat  reserved  and  bashful. 
They  sat  or  stood  looking  at  each  other,  without  being 
able  to  say  much.  To  Flora  it  was  something  new, 

(143) 


144  THE   CROOKED    ELM  | 

She  never  in  her  life  had  been  to  such  a  party.  She 
had,  while  living  with  her  grandpapa,  visited  and  been 
visited  by  little  girls  of  her  own  age,  but  she  never  be- 
fore had  seen  such  a  collection  of  little  people  of  both 
sexes.  She  was  a  stranger  to  them  all.  For  some  time 
she  stood  by  Moulton's  side,  all  blushes  and  embarrass- 
ment, unable  to  make  any  advances  toward  an  acquaint- 
ance with  any  of  the  little  girls  who  stood  looking  at 
her.  She  was  the  most  prettily  dressed  of  any  of  them, 
and  her  large  blue  eyes  never  looked  so  meltingly  sweet 
before.  Harry  Collingwood  stood  looking  at  her,  un- 
able to  see  any  one  else.  His  heart  beat  quicker,  as  he 
looked  into  her  sweet  countenance,  than  it  ever  had 
done  when  in  the  presence  of  Lizzie  Robinson.  Lizzie 
was  there  before  him,  but  Harry,  the  ungallant  and 
fickle-minded,  could  not  see  her.  The  blue  eyes  ab- 
sorbed all  his  vision.  His  mother  glanced  at  him  oc- 
casionally, and  was  amused  to  see  how  effectually  her 
son  was  swallowed  up  in  admiration  of  the  little  curly- 
headed  stranger.  Lizzie  Robinson  was  about  Flora's 
age,  and  withal  a  very  sweet  and  pretty  girl.  When 
Flora  had  been  standing  a  little  while  by  Moulton,  Liz- 
zie approached  her  cautiously,  and  said  in  a  whisper:  — 

"  What  pretty  hair  you  've  got ! "  then  hesitating  a 
moment,  she  added  :  —  "  My  name  is  Lizzie  Robinson  ; 
what  is  your  name?"  To  this  question  Flora  very 
modestly  and  diffidently  whispered :  — 

"  My  name  is  Flora." 

"  Do  you  like  to  play,  Flora  ?  "  asked  Lizzie,  growing 
a  little  bolder. 

"  Play  what  ?  "  inquired  Flora,  not  knowing  what  she 
meant. 

"  Oh  !  to  run  and  play  under  the  trees,"  said  Lizzie. 

"  I  should  like  that  very  much,"  said  Flora. 

Harry  was  watching  the  two  little  beauties,  as  they 


OE,  LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  145 

thus  modestly  began   to  make  each  other's  acquaint- 
ance. 

Lizzie  again  said :  —  "  What  do  you  like  to  play  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Flora.  Lizzie  thought  this 
very  queer,  but  she  did  not  say  so,  she  only  asked :  "  Do 
you  like  '  chase  the  squirrel,'  or  to  play  '  kiss-in-the- 
ring,'  or  '  blind-man's-buff,'  or  '  babes-in-the-wood  ? ' " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Flora,  "  but  I  think  I  should 
like  '  babes-in-the-wood.' "  After  a  little  further  conver- 
sation between  the  two,  Lizzie  invited  Flora  to  go  into 
the  grove  with  her.  Flora  asked  her  papa,  as  she  now 
called  Moulton,  if  she  might  go,  and  obtaining  his  con- 
sent they  left  the  room  and  went  out  upon  the  green 
grass  among  the  trees,  followed  by  Harry  and  the  other 
children.  When  they  were  fairly  out  of  sight  of  their 
respective  parents,  they  grew  more  familiar  and  commu- 
nicative. Harry  began  to  mingle  with  the  rest,  and  soon 
introduced  himself  to  the  curly-headed  beauty  who  had 
caused  him  so  many  sleepless  hours.  Thinking  of 
nothing  better,  he  said  to  her :  "  Mother  and  I  met  you 
and  your  father  walking  last  week.  Do  you  like  to 
walk  ? "  Flora  very  diffidently  answered  him,  that  she 
did  like  to  walk. 

"  I  like  to  walk  too,"  said  Harry,  growing  bold.  "  I 
think  everybody  ought  to  like  to  walk."  Then  hesitat- 
ing a  moment,  as  if  to  think  of  something  else  to 'say, 
he  added :  «  Do  you  like  to  ride  ?  " 

"  Yes,  very  much,"  answered  Flora. 

"  I  like  to  ride  too,"  said  Harry.  "  I  think  everybody 
ought  k>  like  to  ride."  Flora  made  no  reply  to  this  sage 
observation,  but  remained  looking  as  much  embarrassed 
as  ever.  Harry  was  puzzled  to  know  what  to  say  next ; 
but  he  took  courage,  as  her  eyes  timidly  met  his  own, 
and  asked :  — 

(13) 


146  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Flora,"  answered  she. 

"  What  a  pretty  name !  My  name  is  Harry.  Don't 
you  think  it  an  ugly  name,  Flora  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  she,  innocently. 

Harry  was  a  little  perplexed  at  this  answer,  but  he 
added : — 

"  I  think  it  is  a  very  ugly  name  ;  but  your  name  is  so 
sweet !  what  do  you  like  most,  Flora  ?  "  asked  he,  not 
exactly  knowing  what  he  was  saying. 

The  other  children  stood  around  them,  eager  to  know 
something  more  of  the  pretty  little  stranger. 

"  I  like  papa,  Rover,  and  grandpapa  best,"  answered 
Flora  to  the  last  question  of  Harry.  He  now  thought 
her  the  queerest  little  curiosity  that  he  had  ever  met. 

"  Who  is  Rover,  Flora  ?  "  he  asked  eagerly,  half  fear- 
ing that  the  name  belonged  to  some  little  boy.  Flora  be- 
gan to  look  sad.  She  felt  very  much  like  crying,  but  she 
seemed  to  think  it  would  not  be  exactly  proper ;  so  she 
stood  looking  timidly  at  Harry,  as  if  in  doubt  as  to 
whether  she  should  cry,  or  answer  his  question.  "  Rover 
is  a  pretty  name,"  said  Harry,  encouragingly,  when  he 
saw  that  she  hesitated.  "  Is  it  the  name  of  a  boy  or 
girl?"  Flora  looked  at  Harry,  and  then  at  the  little 
girls  and  boys  who  stood  around  her.  The  tears  began 
to  steal  into  her  eyes,  as  she  answered :  — 

"  Rover  is  the  name  of  my  poor  dog,  that  died." 

Harry  felt  relieved.  He  saw  the  tears  in  her  eyes, 
however,  and  sympathizing  with  her,  he  said :  — 

"  Did  any  one  kill  your  poor  dog,  Flora  ?  If  any  one 
did,  I  would  make  him  sorry  for  it." 

"  No,  Rover  only  died,"  answered  she,  still  unable  to 
conceal  her  tears. 

"  Won't  you  tell  us  of  him  ?  and  how  he  died  ?  "  in- 
quired Harry.  "  I  should  like  to  know  all  about  him. 


OR,   LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  147 

He  must  have  been  a  very  good  dog,  or  you  wouldn't 
love  him  so." 

"  He  was  a  very  good  dog,"  said  she,  "  and  he  loved 
me  very  much."  They  all  sat  down  on  the  grass  at 
Harry's  request,  while  Flora  repeated  the  history  of  her 
old  friend.  She  frequently  wiped  away  her  tears  as  she 
spoke.  Harry's  eyes,  together  with  those  of  the  other 
listeners,  were  more  than  once  moistened,  as  she  pro- 
ceeded with  her  story. 

"  I  should  like  such  a  dog,"  said  Lizzie  Robinson, 
when  Flora  had  finished. 

"  I  will  buy  you  a  dog  just  like  Rover,"  said  Harry, 
with  a  little  show  of  his  own  importance.  "  I  will  buy 
you  one  before  a  week  has  passed,  and  you  may  have  it 
to  play  with  just  as  you  used  to  play  with  Rover."  Flora 
told  him,  however,  that  she  did  not  want  another  dog. 
Harry,  therefore,  was  deprived  of  doing  what  his  gen- 
erous heart  prompted. 

"I  should  like  to  see  the  little  hill  where  he  was 
buried,"  he  said.  "  Was  it  near  here  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it  is  a  great,  great  way  off,  where  grandpapa 
lives!" 

Harry  was  now  so  much  interested  in  little  Flora, 
that  he  entirely  forgot  how  much  he  had  formerly  liked 
Lizzie  Robinson.  Lizzie  was  not  jealous  of  her  rival, 
however.  The  story  about  the  dog  had  made  her  love 
Flora  very  much.  They  soon  commenced  playing. 
Every  thing  was  novel  and  strange  to  Flora,  but  she 
soon  learned  to  "  chase-the-squirrel "  as  well  as  any  of 
them. '  They  ran  about  upon  the  grass,  and  made  the 
woods  merry  with  their  joyous  laughter.  After  playing 
for  some  time,  they  all  went  into  the  garden.  Harry 
gave  the  little  girls  flowers,  but  Flora  always  received 
the  prettiest  ones.  He  made  her  a  bouquet  also,  which 
she  took  with  her  when  she  went  home.  When  they 


148  THE   CROOKED  ELM; 

went  into  the  house,  Flora  showed  Moulton  the  flowers 
which  Harry  had  given  her,  and  told  him  who  gave 
them  to  her.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Collingwood  were  present 
at  the  time,  and  Harry  could  not  but  observe  the  know- 
ing and  significant  look  which  his  father  gave  his 
mother.  He  was  proud,  however,  to  think  that  little 
Flora  valued  the  gift,  and  he  felt  that  he  could  endure 
any  reasonable  amount  of  persecution  for  the  sake  of 
pleasing  her.  Late  in  the  afternoon,  Harry,  Flora,  Liz- 
zie, and  several  others  of  the  children  went  down  to  the 
river  and  amused  themselves  in  various  ways.  Harry 
had  a  beautiful  boat,  and  they  all  got  into  it,  and  he 
rowed  them  about  on  the  water  for  some  time.  The 
river  was  dammed  up  a  little  above  the  house.  When 
they  had  all  got  out  of  the  boat,  a  lad,  larger  and 
stronger  than  Harry,  got  into  it,  and  rowed  out  into  the 
middle  of  the  stream.  He  was  skilful  in  the  use  of 
the  oars,  and  was  evidently  anxious  that  they  should 
know  the  fact;  for  as 'soon  as  he  had  gone  a  little  dis- 
tance away,  he  turned  the  boat  and  rowed  along  near 
the  top  of  the  dam,  where  the  current  was  very  swift. 
They  expected  to  see  him  swept  down  over  the  dam, 
but  he  suddenly  turned  and  came  safely  back  to  the 
shore.  Harry  did  not  like  this,  —  he  thought  that  the 
boy  was  trying  to  make  himself  the  hero  of  the  day. 
As  soon,  therefore,  as  the  lad  got  out  of  the  boat,  he 
jumped  in,  determined  upon  surpassing  his  rival  in 
boating.  He  pulled  towards  the  top  of  the  dam,  and 
ran  the  boat  much  nearer  to  it  than  the  other  boy  had 
done.  He  was  now  where  the  current  was  swiftest,  and, 
despite  all  his  efforts,  was  gradually  dropping  down 
stream.  He  saw  his  danger,  and,  turning  the  head  of 
the  boat  up  the  river,  used  all  his  strength  and  skill  to 
make  headway  against  the  sweeping  tide  that  threat- 
ened his  destruction.  It  was  a  moment  of  fearful  anx- 


OR,   LIFE  BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  149 

iety  to  those  who  saw  his  danger.  They  watched  him, 
breathless  with  excitement,  for  a  few  seconds,  —  some- 
times he  gained  a  little  headway,  and  then  again  fell 
back.  Flora  watched  him  only  for  a  moment,  and  then 
ran  as  fast  as  she  could  to  the  house,  and  brought  Moul- 
ton  back  with  her.  Mr.  Collingwood,  with  several  oth^ 
ers,  also  ran  hurriedly  down  to  the  river.  Moulton,  as 
soon  as  he  saw  Harry's  danger,  plunged  into  the  water, 
and,  partly  wading  and  partly  swimming,  soon  made 
the  side  of  the  boat.  Before  he  had  reached  it,  all  the 
party,  including  the  men,  women,  and  children,  had 
assembled  on  the  banks,  anxiously  watching  Harry,  as 
he  still  fought  bravely  against  the  tide.  When  he 
gained  a  little  on  it,  they  cheered  him ;  and  when  he 
seemed  to  be  falling  back,  they  remained  breathlessly 
silent.  As  Moulton  reached  the  boat,  they  all  felt  relief; 
but,  as  he  seized  hold  of  it  to  throw  himself  in,  the  cur- 
rent carried  them  swiftly  over  the  dam.  They  disap- 
peared for  a  few  seconds  beneath  the  white  foam.  It 
was  a  moment  of  life  or  death.  But  who  can  describe 
the  joy  of  the  father  and  mother  of  Harry,  as  they  saw 
him  rise  to  the  top  and  strike  boldly  out  for  the  shore, 
accompanied  by  Moulton  !  They  watched  them,  full  of 
the  intensest  anxiety,  until  they  had  reached  the  bank. 
As  soon  as  they  were  safely  on  land,  Mr.  Collingwood 
ran  up  to  Moulton  and  said :  — 

"  I  am  forever  your  debtor  for  so  gallantly  saving  my 
son !     I  never  shall  be  able  to  repay  you ! " 

Moulton,  making  very  light  of  the  matter,  answered : — 
"  I  have  only  shown  my  inability  to  assist  the  lad,  for 
I  assure  you  he  received  no  aid  from  me.     I  succeeded 
in  carrying  him  over  the  dam,  but  you  will  scarcely 
thank  me  for  that.      But  what  ails  Harry  ?  "  continued 
Moulton,  as  he  saw  him  trying  to  straighten  his  arm. 
13* 


150  THE   CROOKED   ELM  J 

"  I  think  my  arm  is  broken,"  said  Harry,  without 
seeming  to  think  it  much  of  an  accident.  They  exam- 
ined it,  and  found  that  the  bone  was  broken  below  the 
elbow.  It  was  fortunate  that  there  was  a  surgeon 
among  those  present.  It  was  soon  set,  and  Harry  was 
out  among  his  young  friends  again,  the  acknowledged 
hero  of  the  day.  He  was  a  little  mortified  at  not  being 
able  to  surpass  his  rival  in  boatmanship ;  but  the  bold- 
ness and  bravery  which  he  had  shown  more  than  coun- 
terbalanced his  want  of  success  in  what  he  had  under- 
taken. 

"  I  should  have  soon  got  out  of  the  current  had  no 
one  come  to  my  assistance,"  he  said.  "  It  was  very 
noble  in  Mr.  Mowbray  to  try  to  help  rne,  to  be  sure,  but 
there  was  no  need  of  it." 

When  Harry  had  gone  out  to  play  again,  he  said  to 
Flora :  — 

"I  think  I  saw  you  running  over  the  bank  to  the 
house,  while  I  was  out  in  the  river.  I  suppose  I  must 
thank  you  for  bringing  them  all  down  to  look  at  me." 

She  had  not  recovered  from  her  fright,  so  she  said :  — 
"  Please,  don't  go  so  near  that  falling  water  again." 

Harry  told  her  that  he  would  not,  and  in  many  ways 
thanked  her  for  trying  to  assist  him.  Flora  was  much 
concerned  about  his  arm,  but  he  told  her  that  it  was 
nothing  worth  minding. 

"  The  doctor  says  it  will  soon  be  well,"  said  he  to  her. 
"When  it  is  well,  I  am  coming  to  see  you.  Shall  I  ?  " 

"  I  will  be  so  glad  to  have  you  come,"  she  said,  de- 
lightedly. 

He  and  she  were  on  the  best  of  terms.  They  each 
liked  the  other  equally  well.  Flora  thought  Harry  a 
wonder  in  the  way  of  bravery  and  good-heartedness,  and 
he  thought  that  Flora  was  the  prettiest  little  angel  that 
it  had  ever  been  his  good  fortune  to  see. 


OR,    LIFE   BY  THE   WAT-SIDE.  151 

Collingwood  and  Moulton  had  become  quite  well 
acquainted,  and  the  incident  in  the  river  had  bound 
them  together  as  warm  and  ardent  friends.  Moulton 
remained  until  quite  late  in  the  evening,  and  on  leaving 
promised  to  visit  Mr.  Collingwood  often.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Collingwood  also  promised  to  visit  Moulton. 

"  You  must,"  said  Moulton,  "  let  Harry  come  and  see 
us  frequently,  for  since  our  swim  together  I  have  quite 
a  high  opinion  of  him.  He  can  swim  with  one  arm  as 
well  as  I  can  with  two."  This  was  said  in  Harry's  pres- 
ence. "  Then,"  continued  Moulton, "  here  is  little  Flora ; 
he  has  her  to  thank  for  being  carried  over  the  dam.  He 
will  have  to  call  often  to  repay  her  for  the  service  which 
she  rendered  him." 

When  they  had  separated,  Flora's  little  head  was 
filled  with  thoughts  of  the  brave  boy  whom  she  had  that 
day  met,  and  Harry  could  think  of  nothing  else  save 
big  blue  eyes  and  pretty  curls. 

Moulton  was  pleased  with  his  visit.  He  looked  at 
Flora's  glowing  countenance,  and  was  glad  that  he  had 
afforded  her  so  much  pleasure.  A  new  life  had  been 
opened  to  her  imagination.  When  she  went  to  her 
little  room  that  night,  she  dreamed  about  the  plays  and 
sports  of  the  day,  —  nor  did  she  neglect  to  dream  of 
Harry. 

The  next  day  after  the  party,  Harry  was  sitting  in 
the  kitchen  with  Aunt  Rose,  when  the  latter  said,  ad- 
dressing him :  — 

"  Lor,  Massa  Harry !  was  n't  Aunt  Rose  skeered  when 
you  w^ent  ober  de  dam  2  " 

"  That  was  nothing,"  said  Harry.  "  Do  you  think  that 
I  am  a  child,  that  I  should  fear  going  over  that  little 
dam?  You  must  suppose  that  I  am  nothing  but  a 
baby !  "  This  Harry  said  half  indignantly.  He  remem- 
bered Rose's  treatment  on  the  day  previous,  and  lie 


152  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

wished  to  give  her  to  understand  that  he  was  not  so 
much  of  a  child  as  she  seemed  to  think  him. 

"  But,"  said  Aunt  Rose,  "  de  water  am  mighty  swif 
dah.  Dis  here  chile  would  n't  like  to  be  in  it,  dat  am 
sartain,  he,  he,  he!  Am  your  arm  berry  sore,  Massa 
Harry?" 

"  No,"  answered  he,  "  it  is  nothing  at  all  —  only 
broken  below  the  elbow,  Rose." 

"  Ony  broke  'low  de  ebow !  Lisen  to  dat  ar,'  he, 
he,  he ! " 

"  But  when  will  that  cake  be  done  ?  "  asked  Harry. 
"  I  am  very  hungry."  .>..•> 

"  It  '11  be  done  now,  in  de  twinkledum  of  a  'possum's 
eye.  Den  Massa  Harry  shall  hab  his  belly  full." 

The  cake  was  soon  baked,  and  Harry  seated  himself 
by  the  side  of  the  old  negress  and  helped  her  to  eat  it. 
She  also  got  him  some  jelly,  and  other  sweet  things 
which  she  always  kept  locked  up  in  the  cupboard  for 
him.  She  was  very  fond  of  Harry,  and  he  liked  her 
very  much,  except  when  she  treated  him,  as  he  thought, 
too  much  like  a  child.  He  would  not  have  seen  her 
abused  without  resenting  it.  Rose  had  seen  Harry's 
attentions  to  Flora,  and  had  learned  enough  already  to 
know  why  he  had  been  so  particular  in  dressing  himself 
on  the  day  previous.  She  therefore  said,  as  they  sat 
eating  together :  — 

"  Massa  Harry,  did  you  see  dat  lubly  little  gal,  what 
hab  de  curly  hair?  1  means  de  one  what  was  here 
yes'day." 

"  Yes,  I  believe  I  saw  her,"  said  Harry,  with  seeming 
indifference.  "  You  mean  Mr.  Mowbray's  little  girl  ?  " 

Rose  felt  strongly  inclined  to  laugh  at  this  answer  of 
his,  but  she  thought  too  much  of  the  good  cake  she  was 
eating  to  offend  him ;  so  she  answered,  with  a  grave 
countenance :  — 


OR,   LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  153 

"  Dat  am  she.     Was  n't  she  lubly  ?  " 

"  Yes,  she  was  pretty  good  looking,"  said  he,  still  out- 
wardly indifferent. 

"  But,  Massa  Harry,  don't  you  think  dat  she  am  berry 
lubly?" 

"  I  believe,  now  I  think  of  it,  that  she  was  rather 
handsome."  • 

This  was  too  much  for  Aunt  Rose's  gravity ;  —  she 
laughed  outright,  and  said :  — 

"  Did  n't  I  see  you  gib  her  de  flowers,  and  how  you 
looks  into  dem  ar  eyes  ob  hern  —  an  how  you  plays  and 
talks  and  all  dat  ar !  No,  Massa  Harry,  you  can't  foo1 
dis  chile,  he,  he,  he!" 

"  Rose,  you  are  an  old  fool,  that's  just  what  you  are," 
said  Harry,  as  he  rose  and  left  the  kitchen. 

A  few  days  after  the  party,  Harry  went  with  his 
father  to  visit  Moulton  and  Flora.  Before  they  reached 
the  house,  they  met  them  walking  in  a  beautifully  shaded 
lane,  that  divided  the  fields.  Then-  meeting  was  cordial. 
Harry  walked  up  to  Flora,  and,  shaking  her  hand  warm- 
ly, said :  — 

"  Flora,  I  have  come  to  see  you,  as  I  promised." 

She  was  too  embarrassed  to  answer  him,  except  as 
she  spoke  her  pleasure  with  her  eyes.  Her  visit  to  Mr. 
Collingwood's  seemed  to  her  like  a  dream.  She  could 
scarcely  believe  that  the  Harry,  of  whom  she  had 
dreamed  so  much  since  the  party,  was  a  reality  —  a 
veritable  living  boy.  But  there  he  was  before  her,  with 
his  arm  in  a  sling,  looking  as  smiling  and  noble  as  he 
had  lo'bked  in  her  dreams.  Collingwood  and  Moulton 
walked  on  toward  the  house  arm  in  arm,  while  Flora 
and  Harry  lingered  behind  them,  and  soon  were  busily 
engaged  in  animated  conversation. 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  have  brought  you,  Flora  ?  " 
asked  Harry. 


154  THE  CROOKED   ELM; 

"  No,  is  it  a  bouquet  ?  "  inquired  she,  without  stopping 
to  think  that  she  would  have  seen  it  if  it  had  been. 

"  This  is  it,"  said  Harrv,  eager  to  show  her  the  pres- 
ent. He  then  gave  her  a  dog,  very  prettily  worked  in 
worsted,  with  the  name  Rover  written  underneath. 

"  Oh,  how  pretty ! "  exclaimed  she.  "  Did  you  make 
it^Harry?" 

"  No,  it  is  one  that  mother  made  last  summer.  I 
told  her  the  story  about  your  poor  dog,  and  persuaded 
her  to  work  the  name  of  it  on  this,  and  give  it  to  me. 
She  listened  to  all  I  told  her,  and  thought  it  a  very 
pretty  story.  She  said  that  you  were  a  very  good  girl 
to  love  such  a  dog. 

"  But  this,"  continued  Harry,  "  is  not  as  pretty  as 
your  Rover,  is  it  ?  I  don't  think  it  is  very  pretty.  Do 
you  think  so  ?  " 

Flora  did  not  think  it  was  as  pretty  as  her  old  pet, 
but  she  did  not  wish  to  say  so ;  she  therefore  said  :  — 

"  It  is  so  pretty !  and  I  will  like  it  very  much !  because 
it  has  Rover's  name  on  it  —  and  because  you  have  given 
it  to  me,"  she  added,  as  she  looked  timidly  into  Harry's 
face.  "  Because  you  have  given  it  to  me,"  touched  a 
tender  chord  leading  to  Harry's  heart.  He  was  a  thou- 
sand times  repaid  for  the  trouble  he  had  taken  to  please 
her. 

"  Harry,"  said  Flora,  "  does  your  arm  pain  you  ?  Is  n't 
it  very  sore  ?  " 

"  It  is  nothing  at  all,  only  broken  below  the  elbow," 
replied  he. 

Flora  had  thought  it  at  the  time  a  very  serious  acci- 
dent ;  but  Harry  spoke  so  lightly  of  it  that  she  began  to 
think  broken  arms  were  not  much  after  all.  They 
at  length  reached  the  house.  Collingwood  and  Moul- 
ton  had  gone  in,  but  the  two  little  lovers  remained  out- 
side on  a  piazza  overhung  with  vines,  and  talked  long 


OR,  LIFE   BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  155 

and  confidentially  on  a  variety  of  subjects.  Harry  spoke 
to  her  of  what  he  should  do  when  he  grew  up  to  be  a 
man,  and,  strange  to  say,  he  was  never  going  to  do 
things  alone. 

"  I  will  build  a  house,"  said  he,  —  "a  large,  fine  house, 
and  we  will  li ve  like  people  ought  to  live.  I  will  drive 
the  horses  when  we  drive  out,  and  you  may  work  little 
dogs,  or  any  thing  you  like.  I  shan't  care  what  you  do. 
We  will  be  very  happy,  won't  we  ?  "  Flora  innocently 
thought  they  would. 

Thus,  without  knowing  it,  their  young  hearts  were 
pledged  in  love,  each  to  the  other.  I  must  now  leave 
the  young  and  loving  pair  seated  together,  talking  the 
language  of  the  heart  in  all  the  poetry  of  their  young 
imaginations,  while  I  return  to  another  branch  of  this 
story. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 


HASTINGS  continued  to  call  frequently  upon  Mrs.  Bel- 
monte  ;  and  Mrs.  Delacy,  knowing  that  he  did,  continued 
to  feel  jealous,  and  to  grow  more  and  more  unhappy 
every  day.  She  knew  no  way  of  controlling,  however, 
what  seemed  to  be  his  inclination ;  so  she  only  nursed 
her  jealousy,  and  felt  as  miserable  as  she  comfortably 
could.  Miss  Leighton  and  she  had  become  friends 
again,  after  suitable  explanations  and  apologies  had  been 
interchanged.  All,  therefore,  moved  along  as  quietly 
and  smoothly  as  could  reasonably  be  expected,  where 
there  were  so  many  opposing  elements  in  the  same  cur- 
rent. With  Mrs.  Delacy  it  was  only  the  stillness  of 
the  volcano,  however ;  for  she  had  determined  to  know 
more  of  what  gave  her  so  much  trouble  and  uneasiness 
of  mind,  and  was  resolved  to  supplant  every  rival  of  hex 
daughter's  —  especially  Mrs.  Belmonte.  She  began  to 
plot,  lay  plans,  and  intrigue,  in  order  that  she  might  be 
admitted  behind  the  scenes,  where  she  could  see  all  and 
know  all  that  was  taking  place.  Hastings  did  not 
suspect  her  of  any  thing  dishonorable ;  nor  did  he  think 
her  capable  of  doing  what  he  subsequently  learned  that 
she  had  done.  It  was  only  by  degrees  that  the  light 
burst  upon  his  mind,  and  revealed  her  to  him  as  she 
really  was.  She  could  not  smother  all  her  jealous  feel- 
ings when  in  his  presence ;  and,  by  a  word  dropped  now 

(156) 


THE   CROOKED   ELM.  157 

and  then,  he  was  led  to  believe  that  she  knew  what  he 
had  supposed  her  ignorant  of. 

Hastings  was  fond  of  playing  chess.  He  was  a  good 
player,  and  had  few  competitors  who  were  his  equals. 
Mrs.  Belmonte  knew  his  fondness  for  the  game,  and  she 
wished  that  she  knew  how  to  play  it.  She  told  him  her 
desire  to  learn  it,  and  requested  him  to  become  her 
teacher.  Belmonte  also  joined  in  asking  him  to  teach 
his  wife  so  intellectual  an  amusement.  Hastings,  of 
course,  was  most  willing  to  comply  with  their  wishes. 
One  day,  therefore,  soon  after  the  above  request  was 
made,  Mrs.  Belmonte  was  sitting  in  her  room  with  Misa 
Leighton,  when  the  bell  rung,  and  a  box  of  beautiful 
chess-men  was  handed  in.  Mrs.  Belmonte  opened  it 
immediately,  and  took  from  it  a  slip  of  paper,  on  which 
Hastings  had  penned  his  compliments  to  her,  adding 
that  if  she  were  at  leisure,  he  should  be  happy  in 
giving  her  the  first  lesson  in  playing  chess  that  evening. 
Had  Mrs.  Belmonte  known  what  the  box  contained,  she 
probably  would  not  have  opened  it  before  Miss  Leigh- 
ton  ;  but  having  done  so,  and  thereby  disclosed  the  billet- 
doux  which  was  in  it,  she  could  not  well  decline  reading 
it  to  her.  Miss  Leighton,  when  she  heard  the  note 
read,  felt  a  little  jealous,  or  envious,  which  is  about  the 
same  thing,  of  her  friend  Mrs.  Belmonte.  She  thought 
that  it  was  exceedingly  polite  in  Hastings  to  send  her 
the  chess-men.  She  suddenly  remembered  that  he  never 
had  invited  herself  to  learn  the  game,  nor  had  he  ever 
even  mentioned  the  subject  of  chess  to  her.  The  spark 
of  jealousy,  which  had  already  kindled,  and  was  burning 
in  Mrs.  Delacy's  bosom,  now  found  a  lodgement  in  Miss 
Leighton's  thoughts.  "  Hastings,"  said  she  to  herself  as 
she  left  Mrs.  Belmonte's,  "  is  very  marked  in  his  atten- 
tions to  her, —  very  marked  indeed !  I  don't  understand 
14 


158  THE   CKOOKED   ELM; 

it  all.  There  is  something  behind  the  curtain  that  I 
cannot  see."  As  she  thought  this,  she  ordered  her 
coachman  to  drive  to  Mrs.  Delacy's.  She  communi- 
cated the  circumstance  to  Mrs.  Delacy ;  and  the  result 
was,  that  they  each  to  the  other  unbosomed  their  re- 
spective thoughts,  suspicions,  and  jealousies.  A  bond  of 
union  was  at  once  established  between  them ;  and  they 
set  their  wits  to  work  to  accomplish  certain  specified 
results  by  intrigue  and  diplomacy.  Mrs.  Delacy,  how- 
ever, did  not  let  Miss  Leighton  into  the  secret  of  all  her 
plans.  She  had  thoughts  and  designs  of  her  own, 
which  she  would  communicate  to  no  one. 

Hastings  called  on  Mrs.  Belmonte  in  the  evening  of  the 
day  that  he  had  sent  the  box  of  chess.  Mrs.  Belmonte 
was  all  smiles  at  the  prospect  of  learning  a  game  which 
he  was  so  fond  of.  The  men  were  already  arranged  on 
the  board  ready  for  battle.  They  seated  themselves  on 
opposite  sides  of  it,  and  Hastings  commenced  showing  her 
the  different  moves,  and  the  relative  value  of  the  pieces. 
She  was  all  attention,  and  for  at  least  an  hour  was  oblivi- 
ous to  every  thing,  save  kings,  queens,  castles,  knights, 
bishops,  and  pawns.  She  learned  all  the  moves,  and 
went  through  with  one  game  that  evening.  Hastings 
praised  and  encouraged  her,  until  she  believed  that  she 
had  already  advanced  far  in  obtaining  a  knowledge  of 
this  most  difficult  of  all  games. 

"  You  play  capitally,"  said  he,  "  for  a  beginner.  It  took 
me  two  weeks  to  learn  as  much  as  you  have  already 
acquired." 

"  You  flatter  me,"  said  she.  "  It  is  a  delightful  game! 
Walter  said  I  would  find  it  stupid.  He  was  sure  I 
would  n't  like  it ;  but  I  am  charmed  with  it !  " 

The  next  day  she  purchased  Hoyle,  and  got  her  brains 
completely  muddled  in  trying  to  follow  one  of  his 
games  through.  She  could  not  understand  the  book 


OR,   LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  159 

half  so  well  as  she  could  Hastings;  besides,  it  was 
infinitely  less  interesting  to  her  than  he  was.  Hoyle, 
therefore,  was  laid  on  the  top  shelf,  while  she  took  clev- 
erly to  the  lessons  of  Hastings.  Chess  was  introduced, 
now,  almost  every  evening  that  he  called  to  see  her. 
Belmonte,  thinking  it  a  stupid  way  of  passing  the  even- 
ings, generally  retired  to  the  library  to  smoke  a  cigar 
and  look  over  the  daily  papers.  He  did  not  like  the 
game,  yet  he  was  willing  that  those  who  did  should 
play  it.  Mrs.  Belmonte  already  thought  it  a  fascinating 
amusement.  They  would  sit  together,  hour  after  hour, 
with  the  chess-men  between  them,  —  Hastings  looking 
thoughtfully  at  her,  and  she,  unconscious  of  the  fact, 
wholly  absorbed  in  the  game.  He  would  purposely  leave 
some  piece  exposed,  or  by  some  move  place  his  men  in 
such  a  position  as  to  induce  an  attack,  which  he* was 
sure  she  would  make.  When  she  had  made  the  move 
that  he  had  expected,  he  would  praise  her  playing,  and 
pretend  to  be  greatly  puzzled  to  know  how  to  ward  off 
the  attack  which  she  was  so  skilfully  making.  Her 
countenance  would  light  up,  when  she  fancied  that  she 
was  getting  the  advantage  in  the  contest ;  and  when  she 
could  drive  him  from  some  unsustained  position  she 
felt  all  the  pleasure  that  the  game  can  impart  to  the 
greatest  lovers  of  chess.  She  thought  there  was  nothing 
so  delightful  as  checkmating  him,  which  he  frequently 
permitted  her  to  do.  She  would  clap  her  hands  when 
she  had  beaten  him,  and  look  the  personification  of  hap- 
piness. Hastings  thought  there  was  nothing  more  pleas- 
ant thin  looking  at  Mrs.  Belmonte,  when  all  absorbed 
in  the  game  that  he  had  the  pleasure  of  teaching  her. 
Thus  did  the  two  lovers  continue  to  pass  their  evenings 
for  several  weeks,  when  a  little  incident  occurred,  which 
I  will  here  relate.  Mrs.  Belmonte  had  some  young  lady 
relatives  stopping  with  her.  They  had  been  there  for 


160  THE    CROOKED    ELM; 

several  days,  and  Hastings  had  become  well  acquainted 
with  them.  One  of  the  visitors  was  a  young  lady  of 
about  eighteen  years.  She  seemed  to  think  it  no  harm 
to  like  Hastings'  society  very  much ;  or,  if  she  did  see 
harm  in  it,  she  certainly  did  not  avoid  being  in  his  com- 
pany whenever  he  called  at  Mrs.  Belmonte's.  She  was 
not  pleased  or  nattered  much,  therefore,  to  see  him  de- 
vote so  much  of  his  time  to  Mrs.  Belmonte.  She 
thought  that  if  there  was  any  one  thing  more  stupid 
or  dull  than  another,  it  was  that  "  abominable  game 
of  chess." 

"No  one  can  speak  to  either  of  you,"  she  would 
sometimes  say,  in  her  impatience,  "  without  disturbing 
you.  There  you  sit  for  hours  at  a  time,  without  saying 
a  word,  and  seemingly  without  knowing  that  there  is 
any  one  else  in  the  room.  I  will  put  a  stop  to  your 
playing,  see  if  I  don't ! "  This  was  said  half  in  earnest 
and  half  in  jest. 

One  evening,  soon  after  this,  Hastings  had  called, 
and  Mrs.  Belmonte  had  gone  to  get  her  chess-men ;  but 
when  she  opened  the  drawer  where  she  always  kept 
them  she  saw  no  box  there.  She  hunted  for  them  a 
little  while,  and  then  went  down  into  the  parlor  and 

charged  Miss with  having  removed  them.  This 

she  did  laughingly,  although  she  felt  a  little  provoked 
that  they  should  have  been  taken  out  of  her  drawer  by 
any  one.  She  loved  the  chess-men,  and  was  as  careful  of 
them  *as  she  would  have  been  of  the  most  valuable  pres- 
ent. Her  long-loved  Willie  had  given  them  to  her,  and 
she  had  spent  many  a  happy  hour  in  playing  with  them. 
She  loved  the  meanest  pawn  among  them  as  much,  and 
more, -than  an  officer  loves  his  men.  She  naturally 

enough,  therefore,  felt  a  little  displeased  that  Miss 

should  assume  to  take  charge  of  them  in  this  unceremo- 
nious way.  It  was  with  difficulty  that  she  could  laugh 


OK,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  161 

at  what  Miss thought  a  capital  piece  of  fun ;  Mrs. 

Belmonte  returned  to  her  room,  and  made  diligent  search 
for  the  men,  but  was  unable  to  find  them  there.  She 

next  went  into  Miss 's  room,  and  after  a  deal  of 

trouble,  found  them  concealed  under  one  of  the  pillows 
on  the  bed.  She  hastened  down  into  the  parlor  as  soon 
as  she  had  recovered  them,  feeling  that  she  had  outwit- 
ted Miss after  all,  and  was  quite  happy  at  being 

again  in  possession  of  them.  When  she  entered  the 
parlor,  Miss sprang  up  and  said  :  — 

"  I  declare,  you  shall  not  play  that  detestable  game 
to-night !  You  shall  not  monopolize  all  of  Mr.  Hast- 
ings' time  and  company." 

As  she  said  this,  she  playfully  ran  up  to  Mrs.  Bel- 
monte, and  commenced  trying  to  take  the  box  of  chess- 
men from  her.  They  struggled  together  for  some  time, 
when  the  lid  of  the  box  came  off,  and  kings,  queens, 
knights,  and  all,  fell  with  the  weight  of  all  their  dignity 
on  the  floor.  The  heads  were  knocked  off  from  some, 
others  had  their  limbs  disjointed,  and  they  were  a 
wounded  and  deplorable  set  of  men  generally.  Hastings 
assisted  in  gathering  them  up,  and  placed  them  on  the 
board  as  well  as  he  could  in  their  crippled  condition. 
Mrs.  Belmonte,  annoyed  and  grieved  at  this  unlocked 
for  "  tide  in  the  affairs  of  (her)  men,"  seated  herself  at 
the  table  to  play  ;  but  the  sight  of  her  headless  bishops 
and  queens  was  too  much  —  she  burst  into  tears  and 
left  the  room.  Miss soon  followed  her  to  apolo- 
gize for  what  she  had  done;  but  Mrs.  Belmonte  told 
her  that  she  never  wished  to  speak  to  her  again.  She 
would  not  even  open  her  door  to  let  her  in.  A  little 
later  in  the  evening,  Mrs.  Belmonte  sent  a  note  down  to 
Hastings,  begging  him  to  excuse  her  for  the  remainder 
of  the  night.  Hastings  did  not  like  what  Miss  — — 
14* 


1<SS  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

had  done ;  yet  he  concealed  his  feelings.  He  knew  that 
the  chess-men  had  been  broken  in  play,  and,  perhaps,  he 
was  not  displeased  to  see  how  much  Mrs.  Belmonte 

loved  them.    He  remained  an  hour  or  so  with  Miss ; 

and  then  leaving,  he  walked  over  to  Broadway  and  pur- 
chased a  more  valuable  set  of  men  than  those  were 
which  he  had  given  her  before.  He  also  wrote  a  little 
note  and  placed  it  in  the  box,  and  then  returning,  gave 
it  to  Bessy,  Mrs.  Belmonte's  servant,  and  told  her  to 
give  it  to  her  mistress,  and  to  no  one  else.  He  then 
placed  a  piece  of  silver  in  Bessy's  hand,  and  walked 
away.  When  Mrs.  Belmonte  opened  the  box,  and  saw 
the  beautiful  men,  she  felt  that  it  was  very  kind  in 
Hastings  to  send  them  to  her ;  yet  she  thought  that  she 
never  should  love  them  as  she  had  loved  the  others. 

She  made  friends  with  Miss the  next  morning ; 

but  she  never  felt  so  kindly  toward  her  afterwards.  She 
gathered  up  her  crippled  men  carefully,  and  placed  them 
in  the  drawer,  where  she  had  been  accustomed  to  keep 
them.  She  felt  for  them  as  a  general  feels  for  men 
who  have  long  fought  under  him,  and  who  have  won 
him  many  battles  and  much  honor.  The  new  men 
were  prettier ;  but  she  loved  the  wounded  ones  better. 
She  never  liked  the  game  of  chess  so  well  afterward. 
This  may  seem  unnatural  to  the  reader ;  but  I  cannot 
help  it,  insomuch  as  I  am  telling  the  plain,  unvarnished 
truth  of  the  whole  matter  —  no  more  —  no  less.  •% 

Mrs.  Delacy,  after  the  party  at  her  house,  called  on 
Mrs.  Belmonte  once  or  twice ;  but,  being  unable  to  con- 
ceal her  jealousy  from  her,  she  never  received  another 
visit  from  Mrs.  Belmonte.  All  intercourse  of  a  friendly 
nature  was  broken  off  between  them.  Hastings  still 
continued  to  absent  himself  occasionally  from  Mrs. 
Delacy's  dinner-table ;  and,  what  was  still  more  annoying 


OR,   LITE   BY   THE  WAY-SIDE.  163 

to  Mrs.  Delacy,  he  frequently  remained  out  later  at 
night  than  he  had  done  before.  "  How,"  said  Mrs. 
Delacy  to  herself,  as  she  was  thinking  of  these  disagree- 
able facts,  "  how  can  I  break  off  his  visiting  Mrs.  Bel- 
monte,  without  losing  his  friendship  myself?  It  must  be 
done  !  1  will  brook  no  rival !  I  might  make  her  blind 
husband  jealous  of  him ;  but  I  fear  that  would  not  do.  I 
have  no  facts  to  disclose  to  him.  I  must  have  some 
facts  !  "  said  she,  energetically.  "  I  will  know  more  of 
what  is  going  on  —  that  is  settled !  I  am  determined  !  " 
One  evening  that  Hastings  had  not  come  home  to 
dine,  Mrs.  Delacy  went  to  her  room,  and  after  thinking 
for  nearly  an  hour  she  muttered :  "  Yes,  I  will  do  it,  be 
the  consequences  what  they  may ! "  She  then  called 
her  daughter,  and  told  her  that  she  was  going  out  for  a 
little  while,  after  which  she  dismissed  her,  and,  going  to 
her  wardrobe,  selected  the  plainest  dress  that  she  could 
find,  and  putting  it  on  together  with  a  plain  bonnet 
and  thick  veil,  she  stole  away  from  the  house.  It  was 
quite  dark,  though  early  in  the  evening.  She  walked 
hurriedly  along,  keeping  as  much  as  possible  in  the 
least  frequented  streets,  so  as  not  to  attract  attention. 
She  continued  thus  to  walk,  closely  veiled,  until  she  was 
opposite  Belmonte's  house,  when  she  slackened  her  pace 
and  looked  eagerly  at  the  windows.  She  could  see  no 
one  inside,  although  she  knew  that  the  parlor  was  occu- 
pied, from  the  manner  in  which  it  was  lighted.  She 
passed  and  repassed  the  house,  and  peered  about  from 
different  points  to  see  if  she  could  not  get  a  glimpse,  at 
least,  'of  those  within ;  but  it  was  all  to  no  purpose. 
The  blinds  were  too  closely  drawn  to  admit  even  her 
black  eyes.  She  believed  that  Hastings  was  there  with 
Mrs.  Belmonte.  All  her  jealous  feelings  were  awakened  : 
and  she  could,  in  her  anger  and  jealousy,  almost  hav< 
destroyed  her  daughter's  successful  rival,  if  she  had 


164  THE   CROOKED   ELM, 

possessed  the  power.  She  forgot  somewhat  her  first 
feelings  of  danger,  and  grew  proportionably  bold  as 
her  anger  increased.  She  had  walked  at  least  an 
hour  in  sight  of  the  house,  when  just  as  she  was 
passing,  Bessy,  the  servant  girl,  came  out  of  the  base- 
ment door. 

"  I  will  bribe  this  wench  to  give  me  the  information  I 
seek,"  muttered  Mrs.  Delacy,  as  she  approached  to 
where  Bessy  stood. 

"  Bessy,  come  this  way ;  I  wish  to  speak  with  you," 
said  Mrs.  Delacy,  as  she  turned  and  walked  further 
away  from  the  house.  She  did  not  disguise  her  voice, 
for  she  knew  that  Bessy  would  recognize  her  as  soon 
as  she  entered  into  conversation  with  her.  She  was 
determined  to  risk  all  on  the  one  bold  cast  of  the  die. 
Bessy  thought  that  the  voice  was  familiar;  yet  she 
did  not  recognize  the  speaker.  She  was  half  afraid 
to  do  as  requested;  but  her  curiosity  got  the  better 
of  her  fear,  and  she  followed  at  a  little  distance  from 
the  mysterious  female  who  had  spoken  to  her,  and  who 
had  mentioned  her  name.  As  she  walked  on,  she  mut- 
tered :  —  "  Lor5  bless  us !  who  am  dat  ar5  'spicious  lookin' 
feminale  ?  She  knows  my  name,  dat  am  sartin  !  Dat 
ar5  voice  ob  hern  sounds  mighty  like  one  I've  heerd 
afore.  Well,  she  won't  ketch  dis  chile  sleepin' !  I's  not 
sleepin'  when  my  eyes  is  open,  no  how ! "  When  Mrs. 
Delacy  had  walked  nearly  two  blocks  away,  she  stopped 
and  said,  commandingly  — "  Bessy,  hurry  on ! "  But 
Bessy  would  not  hurry  on ;  she  stopped,  and  said,  trem- 
blingly :  — 

"  What  you  wants  me  for  ?  " 

"  Come  here,  you  stupid ! "  said  Mrs.  Delacy.  "  Don't 
you  know  me  ?  "  Bessy  now  recognized  Mrs.  Delacy's 
voice,  and  hurried  to  her  at  once,  wondering  what  she 
could  want  of  her.  Mrs.  Delacy  did  not  hesitate,  but 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  165 

opened  at  once  with  her  business.  She  had  lived  too 
long  in  the  South  not  to  be  able  to  read  negro  char- 
acter readily.  She  was  not  deceived  in  believing  that 
Bessy  could  be  bribed  to  give  her  the  information  which 
she  so  much  wished. 

"  Bessy,"  said  she,  «is  Mr.  Hastings  at  the  house?  " 

"  How  is  I  to  know  ?  I  jis  comes  from  de  kitchen," 
said  Bessy,  feigning  ignorance.  Mrs.  Delacy  placed  a 
sovereign  in  her  hand,  and  asked  again :  — 

"  Is  Hastings  at  Belmonte's  ?  " 

Bessy  held  the  piece  of  money  up  so  as  to  get  the 
reflection  of  light  from  an  adjoining  street  lamp,  and 
seeing  that  it  was  gold,  answered  :  — 

"  Yes  'm,  he  am  dah." 

"  Did  he  dine  there  to-day  ?  " 

"  Yes  'm." 

"  Is  Mr.  Belmonte  at  home  ?  " 

"  Not  as  I  knows  on,"  said  Bessy,  still  unwilling  to 
tell  all  she  knew. 

"  Don't  you  know  that  he  is  not  at  home  ?  " 

"  I'specs  I  does." 

"  What  are  Mr.  Hastings  and  your  mistress  doing  ? 
Are  they  playing  chess  ?  " 

"  I'specs  dey  is." 

"  Is  any  one  there  besides  them  ?  " 

"  You  means  long-  wid  'em  ?  " 

"  No  ;  is  anybody  else  in  the  house  ?  " 

"  Oh !  dat  am  what  you  means !  No,  dey  is  all  alone 
wid  one  anudder." 

"  Does  Mr.  Hastings  come  there  frequently  ?  " 

"  You  means  eb'ry  day  ?  " 

"  No ;  does  he  come  there  two  or  three  times  a  week  ?  " 

"  I  can't  'zactly  say." 

"  Does  he  come  there  once  a  week  ?  " 

«  Ob  course  he  do." 


166  THE  CROOKED   ELM  J 

"  Don't  he  come  there  oftener  than  once  a  week  ? " 
"  I  'specs  he  do,  but  I  can't  ^zactly  say." 
"  Bessy,  does  your  mistress  and  Hastings  play  chess 
every  time  he  comes  there  ?  " 

"  You  means  do  dey  play  chestes  ?  " 
"  Yes ;  why  don't  you  answer  me  at  once  ?  " 
"  Oh !   dat  am  what  you  wants   to  know !    I  never 
seed  em ! " 

"  But,  don't  you  know  whether  they  do  or  not  ?  " 
"  I  does  n't  know,  'cept  dat  I  hears  Missis  speakin'  ob 
kingses,  and  knightses,  and  castledumses   mose  ebery 
day." 

Mrs.  Delacy  pumped  Bessy  as  dry  as  she  well  could, 
and  then  giving  her  another  piece  of  money  said:  — 
"  Come  to  my  house  on  next  Saturday  night  about 
ten  o'clock,  and  I  will  give  you  more  money.  Don't 
tell  any  one  that  you  have  seen  me.  Look  after  Mr. 
Hastings,  and  be  able  to  tell  me  how  often  he  visits 
your  mistress,  and  how  they  spend  their  time.  Does 
your  mistress  go  out  often  alone  ?  "  continued  she. 

"  Not  berry,"  said  Bessy,  "  'cept  when  she  goes  wid 
somebody." 

"  Come,"  said  Mrs.  Delacy,  "  as  I  tell  you,  on  Sat- 
urday night,  and  inquire  for  me."  Then,  thinking  a 
moment,  she  added :  "  Say  to  Jule  (that  was  the  name 
of  Mrs.  Delacy's  servant  who  answered  the  door-bell) 
that  you  have  a  letter  for  me,  and  that  you  must  put  it 
into  my  hands.  Do  you  understand  me  ?  " 

«  Yes,  I  'stands  all  about  it."  Mrs.  Delacy  then  left 
Bessy  and  hurried  home,  filled  with  thoughts  of  ven- 
geance and  burning  jealousy.  "  I  will,"  thought  she, 
"  break  off  his  intimacy  with  Mrs.  Belmonte,  or  I  will 
ruin  myself  in  his  estimation  in  attempting  it."  Thus 
did  she  resolve,  as  she  passed  hurriedly  along  in  the 
shade  of  the  tall  houses  that  line  the  streets  in  the  upper 


OK,   LIFE  BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  167 

part  of  New  York.  That  night  when  Hastings  returned 
home  he  found  Mrs.  Delacy  and  her  daughter  sitting 
in  what  they  called  the  reception  room.  He  walked 
in  carelessly,  and  commenced  talking  in  an  easy  and 
familiar  way. 

"  Well,  Mary,"  he  said,  addressing  the  daughter,  « I 
forgot  to  deliver  your  message  and  get  that  book  to- 
day of  Miss  Holcomb.  I  crave  a  thousand  pardons  for 
the  grave  offence.  But  you  don't  look  as  though  you 
intended  to  grant  them.  Don't  keep  me  in  suspense, 
just  for  the  gratification  of  torturing  me !  Do  speak  at 
once,  and  let  me  know  my  doom ! "  All  this  he  said 
without  giving  Miss  Delacy  an  opportunity  of  putting 
in  a  word.  When  he  had  ceased  speaking,  she  said  :  — 

"  You  care  very  much,  doubtless,  whether  I  grant  you 
pardon  or  not." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Hastings ;  "  now  you  talk  like  your- 
self. I  do  care  very  much  about  it,  I  assure  you." 
Miss  Delacy  was  half  in  the  pouting  mood.  She  thought 
that  Hastings  had  been  spending  the  evening  with  Miss 
Leighton ;  she  therefore  asked :  — 

"  Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  tell  me  what  could  so 
occupy  your  mind  as  to  make  you  forget  so  simple  a 
request  ?  "  Hastings  understood  her  feelings,  and  an- 
swered in  a  manner  calculated  to  provoke  her  still  more 
than  he  already  had  done. 

"  You  won't  be  so  unreasonable  as  not  to  grant  my 
request,  when  you  learn  how  agreeably  I  have  been  en- 
tertained. How  could  I  think  of  your  message?  I 
knew  besides,  that  you  did  not  care  much  about  my 
calling  on  your  friend.  If  you  had  very  much  desired 
to  have  me  call,  why,  that  would  have  been  quite  a  dif- 
ferent matter.  I  could  have  thought  of  nothing  else 
until  the  errand  was  done.  Isn't  that  clear,  and,  as  Sam 
Weller  would  say, '  werry  wisible  ? ' " 


168  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

"  The  first  part  is  quite  clear,"  replied  she ;  "  you  have 
evidently  been  agreeably  entertained." 

"  Still  sensible,  as  you  always  are,"  said  Hastings, 
teasingly. 

"  You  might  have  called,  however,  I  think,"  said  she, 
a  little  displeased  at  Hastings'  seeming  neglect. 

"  So  I  might,  and  under  ordinary  circumstances 
would ;  but  — "  ^» 

"  Well,  I  won't  hear  any  thing  more  about  it,"  said 
she,  interrupting  him.  "  I  have  heard  enough  of  your 
nonsense." 

"  Spoken  like  yourself,"  said  Hastings,  as  he  took 
from  an  inside  pocket  the  book  which  she  had  wished 
him  to  borrow  of  her  friend.  "  I  forgot  your  errand, 
but  I  have  a  book  of  the  same  kind  here.  Will  this 
answer  ?  " 

It  was  beautifully  bound.  He  had  purchased  it  for 
her.  Her  countenance  at  once  brightened  up,  and  she 
said:  — 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  for  being  so  severe  in  censuring 
you,  but  you  must  blame  yourself  for  it;  you  are  al- 
ways provoking  me  to  it." 

"  I  don't  see  that  so  clearly,"  said  he.  "  I  wish  you 
would  illuminate  that  idea  a  little." 

"  I  will  eliminate  it,"  said  she ;  "  so  no  more  nonsense, 
I  pray." 

"  Algebraical  again,  I  declare  !  I  had  almost  forgot- 
ten that  you  had  conquered  all  those  deuced  hard 
studies." 

"  You  forget  a  great  many  things,  and  not  least  of  all, 
you  forget  to  talk  sensibly  to  me."  This  she  said  quite 
spiritedly,  for  Hastings  was  for  ever  teasing  and  annoy- 
ing her  about  her  studies,  and  asking  her  hard  questions 
about  what  she  had  been  learning  at  school. 

He  answered  her  last  remark  by  saying :  — 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  169 

"  I  thought  algebra  a  very  sensible  subject,  or  I  should 
not  have  alluded  to  it  in  so  grave  and  serious  a  conver- 
sation." 

"  I  think  you  are  a  great  tease,  and  a  great  talker  of 
words  without  ideas ;  that  is  what  I  think,"  said  she, 
half  indignantly. 

"  I  declare,  you  are  getting  more  and  more  compli- 
mentary. I  should  think  that  you  would  be  naturally 
cross  and  unamiable ;  but  not  a  bit  of  it.  You  are 
pleasant  as  Pickwick  on  a  benevolent  errand."  This 
brought  a  smile  to  Miss  Delacy's  face,  and  she  said:  — 

"  I  suppose  you  bought  this  book,  so  as  to  have  the 
longer  time  to  spend  with  whoever  has  been  so  agreea- 
bly entertaining  you  to-night  ?  " 

"  Yes,  whoever"  said  Mrs.  Delacy,  who  had  until 
now  remained  silent  and  reserved. 

Hastings  answered  this  sally  from  Mrs.  Delacy  by 
saying :  — 

"  Yes,  Mary,  whoever.  That  is  a  question  to  think 
upon.  Now,  I  will  venture  a  seat  at  the  next  opera 
that  you  think  I  have  been  spending  the  evening  with 
my  friend  Belmonte." 

"  You  must  be  anxious  to  go  to  the  next  opera,"  said 
the  daughter,  "  or  you  would  not  venture  a  seat  upon 
any  thing  so  ridiculous.  I  will  wager  a  seat  for  you 
and  all  your  friends,  that  I  can  tell  where  you  have 
been  spending  the  evening  so  delightfully." 

Mrs.  Delacy,  no  longer  able  to  restrain  her  feelings, 
said,  — 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  where  you  have  been  ?  " 

"  That,  Mrs.  Delacy,"  replied  he,  « would  deprive  all 
my  friends  of  the  next  opera.  I  wish  to  make  at  least 
three  private  boxes  out  of  Mary.  Now  own  up,"  con- 
tinued he,  addressing  the  daughter.  "  Don't  you  think 
15 


170  THE   CROOKED   ELM. 

that  I  have  been  passing  the  evening  with  my  friend 
Belmonte  ?  Come,  be  frank, .  and  pay  the  bet  gal- 
lantly." 

"  You  know  right  well,"  said  Miss  Delacy,  "  that  you 
are  not  right.  What  is  the  use  of  pretending  that  you 
have  not  been  to  see  Miss  Leighton  ?  Who  else  could 
occupy  your  time  half  so  agreeably  ?  " 

"  I  own  to  having  lost  the  bet,"  said  Hastings ;  "  so, 
Mary,  you  may  consider  yourself  booked  for  the  next 
opera,  together  with  any  two  of  your  best  friends."  As 
he  said  this  he  glanced  at  Mrs.  Delacy.  She  was  look- 
ing unhappy.  She  thought  that  she  had  excited  Hast- 
ings' suspicion,  by  the  manner  in  which  she  had  at  first 
spoken  ;  for  the  remainder  of  the  evening,  therefore,  she 
tried  to  conceal  her  feelings  and  make  herself  agreeable. 
Hastings,  as  he  left  them  for  his  own  room,  said :  — 

"  Well,  I  must  tear  myself  away,  and  bid  you  good- 
night. Your  smiling  countenances  will  make  me  think 
pleasant  thoughts  and  dream  happy  dreams ;  so  bon  soir  ! 
Remember  the  next  opera."  This  he  said  as  gayly  and 
carelessly  as  though  he  felt  all  that  he  seemed.  He  had 
not  failed  to  observe  Mrs.  Delacy's  clouded  brow  when 
he  first  entered,  and  he  at  once  suspected  that  it  had 
something  to  do  with  his  visit  to  Mrs.  Belmonte's.  He, 
therefore,  in  talking  with  Miss  Delacy,  had  tried  to  draw 
the  mother  out.  His  efforts  were  partly  successful ;  and 
he  retired,  half  believing  and  half  doubting  that  Mrs. 
Delacy  knew  more  of  his  personal  matters  than  was  safe 
for  him.  He  saw  the  danger  that  he  was  in,  if  it  came 
to  be  thought  that  he  visited  Mrs.  Belmonte  other  than 
as  a  friend.  Consideration  for  her  made  him  half  fear 
Mrs.  Delacy.  Hastings  liked  Miss  Delacy,  because  she 
was  naturally  a  frank  and  high-minded  young  lady ;  but 
all  his  thoughts  of  her  and  all  his  attentions  to  her  were 
those  only  of  a  friend  —  a  sincere  friend. 


CHAPTER     XIV. 


BELMONTE  occasionally  visited  his  relative,  the  old  man 
whom  he  had  robbed  of  little  Flora.  He  wished  to  keep 
in  favor  with  him ;  and  more  than  all  he  longed  to  be  in 
possession  of  his  large  property.  When  he  called  to  see 
him,  therefore,  he  was  all  kindness  and  affection.  He 
sympathized  with  him  in  the  loss  of  Flora,  and  in  every 
way  possible  tried  to  win  his  love.  One  day,  not  many 
months  after  the  little  girl  had  been  taken  away,  Bel- 
monte  called  in  his  carriage,  and  induced  the  old  man 
to  get  into  it  and  take  a  drive  with  him.  As  they  rode 
along  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson,  Belmonte  did  all  in 
his  power  to  amuse  and  natter  Mm. 

"  Uncle,"  said  he,  "  you  look  quite  young  yet.  You 
will  live  many  years,  I  hope,  to  enjoy  this  beautiful 
scenery,  and  the  pleasant  home  where  you  now  li ve.  I 
never  saw  you  looking  better  in  my  life.  If  you  will  drive 
out  every  day  and  get  the  fresh  air,  it  will  do  you  a  great 
deal  of  good.  Shall  I  come  and  take  you  out  occasion- 
ally, when  it  is  pleasant  ?  " 

"  No*/'  said  the  old  man.  "  I  drive  in  my  own  carriage 
when  1  feel  like  it;  but  I  prefer  walking  in  the  fields  and 
working  in  my  flower-garden." 

Belmonte  did  think  that  his  uncle  was  looking 
healthy,  too  much  so  by  far  for  his  wishes  and  prospects. 
He  would  have  rather  seen  him  with  one  foot  in  the 

(171) 


172  THE    CROOKED  ELM  J 

grave.  Along  towards  evening,  he  and  the  old  man 
walked  together  across  the  fields  to  the  little  mound 
where  the  child  and  Rover  lay  buried.  It  was  the  first 
time  that  he  had  visited  the  spot  since  the  burial  of  the 
little  girl.  He  looked  eagerly  as  they  approached  the 
graves,  and  saw  two  little  white  marble  slabs,  exactly 
alike,  one  at  the  head  of  each  of  the  sleepers.  On  one 
he  read  in  large  letters  the  name  ROVER,  on  the  other, 
FLORA.  At  first  sight  of  them  he  started  suddenly  back ; 
but,  recovering  his  self-possession  immediately,  he  walked 
up  to  them,  and  seated  himself  on  a  little  bench  beside 
his  uncle.  Belmonte  was  superstitious  and  cowardly, 
and  it  was  with  difficulty  that  he  could  appear  natural 
and  easy.  He  had  only  accompanied  the  old  man  to  the 
place  in  the  hope  of  being  able  to  still  further  ingratiate 
himself  in  his  affections.  He  saw,  by  the  appearance  of 
ah1  around  him,  how  much  his  uncle  mourned  the  loss  of 
Flora  and  Rover.  The  playhouse  was  there,  just  as 
Flora  had  left  it.  The  forget-me-not  stood  at  the  head 
of  her  old  friend,  just  where  she  had  planted  it.  Two 
little  lambs,  exactly  alike,  lay  at  the  foot  of  each  grave — 
fit  emblems  of  the  purity  they  were  intended  to  repre- 
sent All  the  flowers  which  Flora  had  planted  on  and 
about  Rover's  grave  still  grew  as  lovely  as  when  at- 
tended by  herself.  The  old  man  had  preserved  every 
thing,  just  as  it  had  been  when  she  was  there.  The 
flowers,  the  playhouse,  and  all  reminded  him  of  his 
angel  grandchild,  and  of  the  times  when  he  and  she  used 
to  visit  the  place  together.  Belmonte  sat  beside  him 
whom  he  had  so  much  wronged,  and  pretended  to 
enter  into  all  his  thoughts  and  sympathies.  He  even 
feigned  to  wipe  away  the  tears  from  his  own  tyes,  as  he 
saw  them  coursing  down  the  cheeks  of  the  old  man.  He 
talked  of  Flora  and  her  innocence  with  all  the  affectation 
of  real  feelings  of  love  for  her. 


OR,   LIFE   BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  173 

"  She  is  in  heaven,  the  little  angel,"  said  he,  sympathiz- 
ingly.  "  She  was  fitter  for  that  place  than  she  was  for 
this  earth." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  old  man,  in  the  depths  of  his  sorrow, 
"she  was  my  only  stay  and  support  in  my  old  age! 
Would  that  Heaven  had  given  her  to  me  a  little  longer ! " 

"  It  is  from  these  losses  and  afflictions,"  replied  the 
hypocrite,  "  that  we  learn  to  place  our  affections  on  the 
things  which  are  not  of  this  earth."  Thus  did  Belmonte 
talk ;  and,  so  well  did  he  play  his  part,  that  tlje  old  man 
thought  that  he  had  found  in  his  nephew  a  source  of 
comfort,  and  a  solace  for  the  trials  of  his  old  age. 

Belmonte  could  have  engaged  in  any  safe  enterprise  that 
would  have  put  him  in  possession  of  his  uncle's  estate. 
He  longed  for  him  to  die.  He  even  thought  of  assisting 
him  to  "  shuffle  off  the  mortal  coil "  which  bound  him 
to  this  earth.  His  own  fortune  was  fast  dwindling 
away.  He  found  it  more  and  more  difficult  to  meet  his 
engagements  and  pecuniary  obligations.  He  had  heav- 
ily mortgaged  his  own  property  —  the  times  of  payment 
were  drawing  nigh  —  they  must  be  renewed ;  other  mort- 
gages must  be  given.  Money  must  be  raised  to  meet 
his  current  expenses.  As  this  view  of  his  prospects 
stared  him  in  the  face,  he  heartily  wished  his  old  uncle 
in  the  grave.  He  had  no  confidence  in  his  own  plans, 
or  he  might  have  hastened  the  event.  There  was  no 
one,  to  whom  he  could  open  a  proposition  so  full  of 
danger.  Sometimes  he  feared  the  return  of  little  Flora. 
There  was  something  mysterious  in  her  sudden  disap- 
pearance. At  others,  he  even  suspected  that  Hastings 
knew  where  she  was ;  but  these  suspicions  soon  passed 
away.  He  was  troubled  and  unhappy,  because  his  deeds 
were  evil.  He  was  extensively  interested  in  different 
"  Fancy  Mining  Stocks,"  and  had  made,  at  times,  large 
15* 


174  THE   CROOKED   ELM  J 

sums  of  money  by  his  scheming  and  rather  unscrupulous 
transactions.  He  had  also  suffered  heavy  losses,  by  the 
failure  of  some  of  his  speculative  plans.  He  was  not 
considered  a  safe  business  man  among  the  more  sub- 
stantial stock  operators,  although  he  enjoyed  the  reputa- 
tion of  being  smart  and  shrewd  in  whatever  he  engaged. 
He  had  brain  enough,  but  he  was  unscrupulous  in  its 
use.  He  was  a  plausible,  sanguine,  driving  man,  when 
he  wished  to  be ;  but  there  was  so  little  system  in  what 
he  did,  th%t  he  was  often  the  loser  in  what  he  undertook. 
He  operated,  as  I  have  said,  in  fancy  stocks  ;  but  more 
particularly  in  mining  stocks,  of  the  doubtful  and  preca- 
rious kind.  As  he  was  sitting  one  day  in  his  office 
thinking  of  all  his  prospects,  a  letter  was  handed  him  by 
the  postman.  He  looked  at  the  address,  but  did  not  rec- 
ognize the  handwriting.  He  opened  it,  and  read  as 
follows :  — 

N.  Y. , . 

"  SIR  :  —  You  will  do  well  to  look  a  little  more  closely 
into  your  domestic  affairs,  if  you  wish  to  preserve  the 
reputation  of  your  family  from  stain,  and  the  conse- 
quence of  suspicion.  Your  friends  think  you  a  little 
blind.  Au  revoir. 

"  ONE   WHOSE   EYES   ARE   OPEN." 

Belmonte  read  over  and  over  again  the  startling  little 
missive.  He  could  not  interpret  it.  Sometimes  he 
thought  that  it  referred  to  his  own  guilt  in  taking  little 
Flora  from  his  uncle's.  The  word  domestic,  however, 
led  him  to  believe  that  it  had  some  other  meaning. 
He  thought  of  Hastings'  frequent  visits  to  his  house, 
but  he  believed  him  to  be  honorable.  He  thought  of 
Mrs.  Belmonte.  He  knew  that  she  never  had  married 
him  from  choice,  and  that  she  never  had  loved  him  ex- 


OR,   LIFE  BY   THE  WAY-SIDE.  175 

cessively;  yet  he  believed  her  true,  and  incapable  of 
deception.  He  had  been  of  late  so  absorbed  in  his  own 
wicked  plots,  that  he  had  thought  of  nothing  else 
scarcely.  We  have  already  seen  him  leaving  Saratoga 
and  all  its  attractive  gayety  to  carry  out  one  of  his 
schemes.  His  mind  had  been  engrossed  in  the  one 
great  idea  of  possessing  himself  of  his  uncle's  fortune. 
He  looked  at  the  letter  which  he  continued  to  hold  in 
his  hands  —  he  turned  it  upside  down,  and  scrutinized 
it  closely  from  every  conceivable  point  of  view ;  but  he 
still  remained  in  darkness  as  to  its  meaning.  He  did 
not  know  the  handwriting  —  he  felt  puzzled  and  per- 
plexed at  its  mysterious  contents.  He  looked  at  the 
envelope,  thinking  that  it  probably  was  not  for  him ;  but 
he  saw  his  own  name  in  full,  together  with  the  street, 
and  number,  of  his  office.  The  more  he  thought  of  the 
domestic  features  of  the  letter,  the  more  was  his  head 
filled  with  Hastings'  visits  to  his  wife. 

"  His  frequent  calls  in  my  absence,"  muttered  he,  "  have 
led  some  evil-minded  person  to  suspect  my  wife  of  incon- 
stancy. Nothing  could  be  further  from  the  truth.  Yet  it 
may  be  well  to  guard  against  suspicion."  He  sat  a  long 
time  thinking  of  subjects  growing  out  of  that  mischiev- 
ous note. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  although  I  know  his  visits  are  all 
honorable,  and  that  my  wife  is  free  from  guile  or  de- 
ception of  any  kind,  yet  others  may  misconstrue  his 
coming  to  my  house  so  often.  It  may  be  better  that  he 
shguld  never  call  except  when  I  am  at  home,  and  then 
not  so  often  as  he  has  been  accustomed  to  of  late.  He 
has  done  me  a  lasting  favor  in  helping  me  to  get  rid  of 
that  child,  and  I  must  not  let  him  think  that  I  suspect 
him  of  any  thing  dishonorable.  I  will  tell  Cornelia 
that  it  will  be  better  that  Hastings  call  to  see  her  only 
when  I  am  at  home." 


176  THE   CROOKED    ELM  | 

Thus  did  Belmonte  reason,  not,  however,  without, 
sometimes  feeling  a  little  jealous  of  Hastings.  The 
spark  had  been  lit,  although  it  was  scarcely  perceptible. 

Hastings  called  to  see  Mrs.  Belmonte  in  the  evening 
of  the  day  that  Belmonte  had  received  the  anonymous 
note ;  and  Belmonte,  notwithstanding  his  convictions  of 
his  wife's  and  Hastings'  innocence,  could  not  leave  the 
room  where  they  sat  playing  their  favorite  game  of 
chess.  He,  contrary  to  his  usual  custom,  remained 
with  them  during  the  whole  evening.  He  had  already 
commenced  "  looking  a  little  more  closely  into  his  do- 
mestic affairs,"  as  politely  requested  by  "  one  whose  eyes 
are  open."  He  felt  half  jealous,  half  suspicious,  yet  he 
would  say  to  himself :  "  It  is  all  nonsense.  I  will  not 
distrust  either  of  them."  Notwithstanding  all  his  con- 
victions of  their  innocence,  however,  when  Hastings 
called  in  future  to  see  Mrs.  Belmonte,  he  always  felt 
uneasy  and  uncomfortable,  until  he  could  go  into  the 
drawing-room  or  parlor  where  his  wife  and  Hastings 
were.  It  mattered  not  how  busy  he  was,  or  how.  much 
interested  in  a  newspaper  article,  he  would  drop  all  and 
repair  at  once  to  them.  That  little  letter  was  disturb- 
ing his  quiet,  and  was  operating  just  as  Mrs.  Delacy 
had  intended  that  it  should  when  she  penned  it.  One 
evening,  when  Mrs.  Belmonte  and  her  husband  were 
sitting  together,  he  said  to  her :  — 

"  Cornelia,  my  dear,  I  fear  that  some  evil-minded 
persons  may  make  mischief  out  of  my  friend  Hastings' 
frequent  visits  here."  <Mg»i  • 

Mrs.  Belmonte  turned  crimson  at  this  remark,  so  un- 
expected and  startling.  She  could  not  conceal  her  agi- 
tation. Belmonte  construed  her  blushes  as  evidence  of 
her  innocence,  and  apologized  as  well  as  he  could  for 
having  mentioned  the  subject.  Mrs.  Belmonte  felt 
guilty,  because  she  knew  that  she  loved  Hastings  with 


OR,  LIFE   BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  177 

her  whole  heart.  She  thought  it  was  very  wrong  to 
love  him  as  she  did  ;  yet  she  was  unable  to  control  her 
feelings,  or  think  differently  of  him.  She  was  innocent 
of  every  thing  except  that  of  loving  him —  she  never 
had  thought  of  any  thing  beyond.  Hastings  never  had 
spoken  to  her  of  any  thing  that  could  compromise  her- 
self in  her  own  estimation.  Her  thoughts  were  her 
only  guilt.  She  was  happy  when  with  him  to  whom 
she  had  pledged  her  lasting  love  in  the  days  of  her 
girlhood.  They  each  loved  the  other  —  they  instinc- 
tively knew  the  fact,  and  they  were  satisfied.  Their 
feelings  were  expressed  in  looks,  in  kind  actions,  and  in 
words,  which  without  speaking  the  language  of  affection, 
nevertheless  breathed  it  in  the  tender  accents  in  which 
they  were  uttered.  Their  hearts  conversed  together  in 
sighs,  and  through  the  love-expressing  eye.  It  was  a 
language  which  hearts  only  understand,  and  infinitely 
more  expressive  than  any  combination  of  words  could 
be.  When  Belmonte  spoke  as  he  did  of  Hastings'  visits, 
she  knew  not  how  to  construe  him.  She  feared  —  she 
thought  that  something  must  have  occurred  to  make  her 
husband  suspicious  of  him.  What  could  it  be  ?  Bel- 
monte never  had  spoken  to  her  before  against  his  com- 
ing there  as  often  as  he  liked.  He  had  always  seemed 
pleased  to  have  him  call.  Mrs.  Belmonte  instinctively 
thought  that  Mrs.  Delacy  was  at  the  bottom  of  it  all. 
Thus  do  woman's  instincts  or  perceptive  faculties  often 
lead  her  to  instantaneous  and  correct  conclusions,  which 
plodding  man  can  only  arrive  at  after  a  long  course  of 
reasoning  and  calculation. 

"  Why,"  inquired  Mrs.  Belmonte,  after  she  had  suffi- 
ciently recovered  from  her  agitation  to  speak,  "  why  do 
you  think  that  his  visits  are  improper  now,  when  here- 
tofore you  have  been  pleased  to  have  him  call  as  often 
as  he  liked  ?  "  Belmonte  sat  a  moment,  as  if  unable  to 


178  THE   CROOKED   ELM, 

answer  this  pointed  question.  "  What,"  continued  she, 
"  has  occurred  to  make  you  so  suddenly  change  your 
mind  ?  " 

"  My  dear,"  said  he,  a  little  confused,  "  I  have  no  ob- 
jection to  his  calling  here  as  often  as  he  can  make  it 
pleasant  to  himself  and  agreeable  to  you ;  but  there  are 
evil-minded  persons  who  may  make  mischief  out  of  it. 
So  you  will  please  intimate  to  him  that  he  had  better 
call  only  when  I  am  here,  and  then  not  so  often  as  he 
has  been  accustomed  to." 

"  But  how  can  I  tell  him  that  ?  He  will  be  justly  of- 
fended." 

"  I  leave  that,  my  dear,  to  your  good-sense  and  judg- 
ment," said  Belmonte,  not  more  than  half  liking  the 
feeling  way  in  wliich  Mrs.  Belmonte  resisted  his  sug- 
gestion. 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  replied  she,  spiritedly.  "  Your 
friend  certainly  has  reason  to  feel  flattered  at  the  kind- 
ness and  consideration  we  are  about  to  show  him." 

"  Well,  let  us  say  no  more  about  the  matter  now," 
said  Belmonte,  as  he  left  the  room.  He  was  hah0  in- 
ch'ned  to  feel  jealous  in  very  earnest.  Mrs.  Belmonte 
could  not  sleep  that  night.  Her  head  was  filled  with 
conjectures  and  forebodings. 

"  What  does  this  all  mean  ?  "  thought  she,  as  she  lay 
uneasy  and  nervous  on  her  pillow  during  the  small 
hours  of  the  morning.  "  Something  has  made  Walter 
suspicious  of  him."  Hastings  called  a  few  evenings 
after  this  conversation  between  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Belmonte, 
and  was  surprised  to  see  Mrs.  Belmonte  looking  sedate 
and  troubled.  He  asked  her  the  cause,  and  she  told 
him  that  nothing  was  the  matter ;  that  she  felt  as  well 
and  the  same  as  she  had  done  when  he  had  seen  her 
last.  She  could  not  make  up  her  mind  to  tell  him  what 
she  had  been  instructed  to  say.  She  feared  that  he 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  179 

would  misconstrue  and  blame  her,  and  consequently 
the  subject  was  not  mentioned  that  evening.  Just  as 
Hastings  was  leaving,  however,  she  said  to  him:  — 

"  Will  you  be  at  leisure  to-morrow  morning  at  eleven 
o'clock  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  he. 

"  Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  call  here  at  that  hour  ? 
I  have  something  particular  to  say  to  you." 

"  I  will  call ;  but  you  are  a  little  mysterious,  and  your 
serious  countenance  leads  me  to  think  that  you  have 
something  unpleasant  to  communicate.  I  hope  I  have 
in  no  way  offended  you." 

"  No,"  said  she,  almost  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  Do 
not  misconstrue  the  request,  until  yoi}  shall  hear  all  that 
I  have  to  say."  Hastings  left,  full  of  conjecture  as  to 
what  Mrs.  Belmonte  wished  to  communicate.  He  was 
impatient  for  the  morning  to  come ;  but  never  did  the 
hours  pass  more  slowly -away.  Twice  did  he  get  up 
and  look  at  his  watch  during  the  night.  The  morning 
seemed  to  be  an  age  in  coming.  It  came,  however,  at 
last ;  and  at  eleven  o'clock  precisely  he  rung  the  bell  at 
Mrs.  Belmonte's  door,  and  was  let  in  by  Bessy.  She 
noticed  Hastings'  anxious  looks,  and  as  she  passed 
down  to  the  basement  she  moralized  in  this  way  :  — 

"  Well,  suthen  is  up,  sartin !  He's  jis  as  white  as  mis- 
sis'  hand.  Den,  to  come  dis  hour  in  de  mornin' !  Dey 
'magines  dat  dis  chile  is  sleepin',  but  dey  is  mighty  de> 
ceived.  Missis  'Lacy  —  jis  think  of  her  tudder  night! 
I  'speps  daT  is  suthen  up.  Well,  white  folks  knows 
der  business  better  nor  culled  persons,  but  I  don't  'zactly 
see  it."  Thus  did  Bessy  think,  as  she  returned  to  her 
work  in  the  kitchen. 

Hastings  walked  into  the  parlor,  where  Mrs.  Bel- 
Kionte  was  awaiting  him.  They  met  as  cordially  as 
ever.  He  seated  himself  by  her  side,  and  looked  in- 


180  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

quiriiigly  at  her.  She  tried  to  be  as  pleasant  and  agree- 
able to  him  as  she  had  been  accustomed  to  be  previous- 
ly. She  feared  that  he  would  be  offended  at  her  for 
what  she  was  about  to  say,  and  she  sought  to  con- 
vince him,  by  a  welcome  and  cordial  greeting,  that 
she  still  thought  of  him  as  she  always  had  done  since 
she  had  first  known  him.  It  was  some  time  before  she 
could  introduce  the  disagreeable  subject.  At  length, 
however,  she  said :  — 

"  You  will  not  be  offended,  I  hope,  at  what  I  am 
compelled  to  say  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not.  But  you  are  very  mysterious.  You 
excite  my  curiosity,  and  make  me  apprehensive." 

"  Will  you  promise  not  to  be  angry  with  me  ?  " 

"  I  never  can  be  angry  with  you  —  but  you  speak  to 
me  in  riddles." 

"  I  fear  you  will  blame  me.  I  cannot  tell  you,"  said 
Mrs.  Belmonte  nervously,  and  scarcely  able  to  keep 
back  her  tears. 

"  You  need  not  fear  to  tell  me  any  thing.  Tell  me 
at  once  what  is  making  you  so  unhappy." 

She  then  told  him  what  she  had  been  compelled  to 
say. 

"  What  has  put  this  into  your  head  ?  "  asked  Hast- 
ings. 

"  I  fear,"  replied  she,  "  that  evil-minded  persons  may 
make  mischief  out  of  your  visits  here  in  Walter's  ab- 
sence." 

Belmonte  had  told  her  not  to  mention  his  name  in 
connection  with  the  matter,  and  she  was  trying  to  give 
some  good  excuse  to  Hastings  for  what  she  had  so  un- 
willingly said  to  him.  Hastings  thought  a  moment, 
and  then  said :  — 

"  It  is  very  true  that  evil-minded  persons  might  mis- 
construe my  visits  here ;  but  what  has  led  you  to  think 


OR,   LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  181 

of  this  now  ?  Why  have  you  never  thought  so  be- 
fore ?  "  Mrs.  Belmonte  was  in  trouble  —  she  feared 
that  if  she  did  not  give  some  better  reason  for  what 
she  had  said,  he  would  be  offended.  Her  love  for 
him  finally  conquered  and,  disobeying  her  husband's 
command,  she  told  him  all. 

"  Walter  instructed  me  to  say  what  I  have,"  said  she. 
"  I  am  very  sorry  that  you  have  been  compelled  to  listen 
to  what  must  seem  to  you  very  strange,  and  to  what 
has  given  me  so  much  pain  to  say.  I  fear  that  some- 
thing has  occurred  to  make  him  suspicious." 

Hastings  sat  for  a  moment  in  silence  and  then  said:  — 

"  I  don't  understand  why  he  should  so  suddenly  sus- 
pect me." 

"  Do  not  blame  me  for  what  I  have  said,  will  you  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Belmonte,  imploringly. 

"  Blame  you  ?  never !  It  is  a  thing  impossible  !  " 
said  Hastings,  with  some  enthusiasm. 

Then,  he  continued :  "  But  I  must  obey  Belmonte's 
wishes.  I  cannot  call  as  often  as  I  have  done  heretofore." 
Then  stopping  a  moment  and  looking  at  Mrs.  Belmonte 
with  a  countenance  beaming  with  tenderness  and  love, 
he  added : — 

"  We  have  long  known  each  other,  Cornelia ;  yes,  I 
will  say  Cornelia,  for  it  is  by  that  name  I  always  think 
of  you.  We  have  known  each  other  long,  and  it  is  use- 
less for  me  to  confess  that  I  have  loved  you  from  the 
time  we  first  met  at  Saratoga,  for  you  must  have  known 
it.  We  have  passed  many  happy  hours  together ;  but 
we  must  now  separate,  for  you  are  the  wife  of  another. 
We  are  suspected,  and  for  me  to  visit  you  longer  will 
be  to  injure  your  good  name.  Hard  as  it  is  to  deprive 
myself  the  pleasure  of  your  society,  I  nevertheless  can 
do  it  for  your  sake.  You  know,  and  must  long  have 
16 


182  THE   CROOKED    ELM  J 

known,  that  I  prized  your  friendship  more  than  all  else 
beside.  Am  I  wrong  in  thinking  that  my  feelings  are 
to  some  extent  reciprocated  ?  " 

Mrs.  Belmont  did  not  answer  him.  She  was  embar- 
rassed and  confused,  but  her  silence  was  the  very  elo- 
quence of  love.  Her  face  was  crimson  with  blushes. 
She  could  not  raise  her  eyes  from  the  floor.  At  length 
Hastings  rose  to  go ;  and,  taking  Mrs.  Belmonte's  small, 
white,  and  soft  but  trembling  hand  in  his,  he  said :  — 

"  I  am  grieved,  Cornelia,  that  we  are  suspected,  and 
more  than  all  I  am  pained  to  think  that  in  future  I  am 
to  be  deprived  of  your  society.  I  think  I  had  better  not 
call  again ;  for  what  pleasure  will  there  be  to  either 
of  us  in  my  visiting  you,  when  we  both  know  that 
we  are  constantly  watched  by  your  suspicious,  per- 
haps jealous,  husband.  No,  Cornelia,  I  must  not  call 
again." 

Mrs.  Belmonte  could  not  endure  the  idea  of  being 
thus  deprived  of  his  society. 

"  Do  not  mind  what  Walter  thinks,  but  call  just  as 
often  as  you  have  done  heretofore." 

"  No,  Cornelia,"  said  Hastings,  as  he  still  held  her 
hand  in  his,  "  I  must  not ;  I  fear  for  your  sake,  not  for 
my  own." 

"  But  you  must  call.  I  shall  be  very  lonely  if  I  can- 
not see  you." 

Hastings  saw  her  troubled  countenance,  and  thinking 
a  moment,  said  :  — 

"  Cornelia,  have  you  known  me  long  enough  to  trust 
to  my  honor  ?  " 

^  **  Yes,  William,  in  every  thing,"  said  she,  still  unable 
to  raise  her  eyes  from  the  floor.  She  remained  stand- 
ing by  his  side,  with  her  hand  in  his.  This  was  the  first 
time  that  she  had  ever  called  him  William.  She  could 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  183 

not  say  Mr.  Hastings  —  neither  could  she  say  Willie, 
as  she  had  done  in  years  gone  by.  She,  therefore,  as 
her  heart  overflowed  with  love  for  him,  said :  — 

"  Yes,  William,  in  every  thing ! " 

"  Will  you  then  meet  me  occasionally  where  we  can 
converse  freely  together  ?  " 

"  No,  I  could  not  do  that.  It  would  be  very  wrong. 
Don't  ask  me  to  do  what  would  compromise  my  self- 
respect." 

"  I  know,"  replied  Hastings,  "  that  it  would  be  wrong 
in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  But  we  will  know  that  we  are 
innocent  of  every  thing,  except  that  of  loving  each  other. 
That  knowledge  will  be  our  excuse,  if  not  our  justifi- 
cation." 

"  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  meet  you,  William ;  there 
would  be  danger  in  doing  so,  —  some  one  might  see  us, 
and  then  I  should  be  ruined  forever." 

"  We  could  get  into  a  close  carriage,  and  drive  for  an 
hour  or  two  occasionally,  without  being  seen  or  sus- 
pected, I  think,"  said  he. 

"  No,  no,  I  must  not,  I  cannot ! " 

"  I  know  the  danger,"  said  Hastings,  "  and  will  not 
urge  you  to  consent  to  what  I  ask.  Yet  I  cannot  recon- 
cile myself  to  the  thought  of  not  visiting  or  seeing  you 
again,  except  occasionally,  and  then  only  when  Bel- 
monte  is  present  to  watch  us." 

Mrs.  Belmonte  was  undecided.  She  knew  not  what 
to  do.  She  felt,  as  Hastings  expressed  himself,  that  it 
would,  be  unpleasant  to  have  her  husband  continually 
watching  them.  She  never  had  cared  before  whether 
Belmonte  remained  in  the  room  with  them  when  Hast- 
ings was  there  or  not.  But  the  thought  that  she  should 
be  watched  gave  her  uneasiness. 

"  I  should  be  glad  to  meet  you ; "  continued  Hastings, 
"  and,  should  you  consent,  I  will  give  you  my  word  that 


184  THE   CROOKED   ELM. 

you  shall  be  treated  honorably ;  but  I  suppose  I  must 
not  hope  for  so  much  happiness." 

As  he  said  this,  he  moved  hesitatingly  towards  the 
door,  still  holding  her  hand.  Mrs.  Belmonte  was  unable 
longer  to  resist  his  proposition.  She  looked  into  his  face 
and  said :  — 

"  I  will  see  you  as  you  have  suggested.  You  must 
not  construe  my  conduct  harshly.  I  cannot  refuse  your 
request,  although  my  heart  tells  me  that  I  am  very 
wicked  in  deciding  to  meet  you." 

Hastings  pressed  her  hand  gently,  and  putting  one 
arm  round  her  waist  and  tenderly  embracing  her, 
said :  — 

"  I  feel  that  I  am  inducing  you  to  do  wrong ;  yet, 
whatever  may  be  the  consequence,  I  will  be  true  to  you 
always.  We  are  not  the  only  ones  who  are  guilty. 
Should  harm  come  to  you,  I  will  share  it." 

The  time  of  their  meeting  was  agreed  upon,  and 
Hastings  left,  full  of  thought  respecting  the  future. 

"  Belmonte  is  not  worthy  of  such  an  angel !  "  mut- 
tered he,  as  he  walked  away.  Perhaps  he  was  inter- 
ested and  partial  in  thinking  thus.  Be  this  as  it  may, 
he  certainly  thought  that  Mrs.  Belmonte  was  too  good 
for  her  husband.  This  mitigated  his  own  wrong  in  his 
estimation.  Thus  does  Cupid  teach  the  heart  to  ex- 
cuse what  reason  tells  us  is  wrong. 


CHAPTER    XV. 


BESSY,  true  to  her  promise,  set  out /or  Mrs.  Delacy's 
a  little  before  ten  o'clock  on  Saturday  night.  It  was 
raining  quite  hard ;  and  so  dark  that  she  could  see  noth- 
ing save  the  nickering  street  lamps.  With  her  dress 
and  skirts  well  gathered  up  in  one  hand,  and  holding  an 
old  umbrella  with  half  protruding  ribs  in  the  other,  she 
walked  hastily  on  through  the  mud  and  water,  regard- 
less of  wet  feet  and  bespattered  stockings.  Could  one 
have  been  near  those  lamps  as  she  passed,  it  would 
have  been  no  difficult  matter  to  see  by  the  white  in  her 
eyes  that  she  was  a  genuine  African.  Bessy  did  not 
dislike  her  mistress.  She  had  lived  with  her  a  long 
time,  and  would  have  done  any  thing  in  reason  to  please 
her.  She  could  not  understand  why  Mrs.  Delacy  was 
so  anxious  to  know  how  often  Hastings  called  to  see 
Mrs.  Belmonte.  It  was  a  mystery  to  her,  although  she 
sometimes  half  suspected  that  jealousy  was  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  matter.  She  saw  no  harm  in  accepting 
Mrs.  Delacy's  gold ;  yet  she  frequently  had  conscientious 
scruples  and  misgivings  in  receiving  it  on  the  terms  im- 
posed, and  for  the  moment  wished  that  she  never  had 
disclosed  the  secrets  of  her  mistress's  house.  It  was  a 
question  that  troubled  her,  and  often  did  she  get  her 
woolly  head  into  a  perplexed  and  bemuddled  state,  in 
16  *  (186) 


186  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

trying  to  come  to  a  clear  solution  of  it.  When  she 
came  to  Mrs.  Delacy's  house,  she  walked  up  the  steps, 
and,  after  stamping  the  wet  from  her  feet,  rang  the  bell, 
and  was  surprised  to  have  the  door  immediately  opened 
by  the  very  lady  whom  she  had  come  to  see. 

"  Bessy,  walk  into  that  room,  quick,"  said  Mrs.  De- 
lacy,  pointing  her  finger  towards  the  reception-room 
door.  Bessy  walked  in  as  directed,  and  soon  the  two 
were  engaged  in  close  conversation. 

"  Has  Mr.  Hastings  been  to  see  your  mistress  since  I 
saw  you  ?  "  commenced  Mrs.  Delacy. 

"  Yes  'm,  he  's  been  dah  twistes." 

"  Was  Mr.  Belmonte  at  home  ?  " 

"  One  time,  but  not  de  tudder." 

"  Did  you  see  how  they  passed  their  time  ?  " 

"  You  means  how  dey  'joyed  one  anudder's  socia- 
bility ?  Oh,  yes,  I  seed  how  dey  'joyed  one  anudder." 

"  Well,  how  did  they  spend  their  time  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dey  plays  chestes,  ob  course,  jis  as  dey  allers 
does." 

"  Where  did  they  play,  in  the  parlor  ?  " 

"  Ob  course,"  said  Bessy,  as  she  looked  wonderingly 
at  Mrs.  Delacy. 

"  Did  you  see  them  playing  ?  " 

"  Yes  'm.  You  see  Missis  rings  de  bell,  and  'quests 
me  to  bring  'em  some  wine  an'  cake.  So,  do  ye  see,  I 
did  as  Missis  said,  and  jis  as  I  comes  into  de  room,  dey 
was  a  standin'  up  lookin'  at  a  picter  on  de  wall,  an' 
Missis  says,  says  she,  *  come,  Misser  Hastins,  an'  drink 
some  cake  an'  some  wine,  for  I  knows  you  is  mighty 
dry  arter  gittin'  de  wuss  ob  de  play.'  So,  do  ye  see,  dey 
bofe  drinks,  and  Misser  Hastins  says,  says  he,  '  I  con- 
glomerates you  on  de  cess  ob  de  game,  and  de  skill  you 
has  in  playin'  chestes.' " 


OK,   LIFE  BY  THE  WAT-SIDE.  187 

«  What  did  she  say  to  that  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Delacy,  with 
a  clouded  brow. 

"  Oh,  Missis  drinks  de  cake  and  de  wine,  and  looks  as 
smilin'  as  a  basket  ob  chips." 

"  What  else  did  you  see,  Bessy?" 

"  I  only  seed  Massa  Hastins  shake  hands  wid  Missis 
jis  afore  he  lef.  For,  do  ye  see,  I  has  my  eyes  open,  I 
has,  and  when  I  hears  him  a  gwine  to  go,  I  jis  peeps 
roun'  de  stairs,  and  sees  him  a  smilin'  an'  shakin'  ob 
Missis'  hand.  An'  Missis  says,  says  she,  '  be  sure  an' 
^ome  nex'  Wenzy  night.'  An'  he  promises  Missis  he 
will,  sure.  Dey  bofe  lef  den,  an'  I  lef  too.  Dats  all  I 
knows." 

"  But  what  of  the  other  night,  that  he  called  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Delacy. 

"  I  was  dah,  but  I  seed  nuthin,  'cept  dat  Massa  Bel- 
monte  'mained  in  de  parlor  with  Missis  an'  Massa 
Hastins." 

"  Well,  Bessy,  you  can  go  now ;  but  come  here  again 
on  next  Saturday  night."  As  she  said  this,  she  placed 
a  piece  of  gold  in  Bessy's  hand  and  showed  her  out  of 
the  house,  not,  however,  without  cautioning  her  to  say 
nothing  to  any  one  of  her  visit. 

When  Mrs.  Delacy  was  alone,  she  began  to  think  of 
her  dark  plans  of  revenge.  "  Next  Wednesday  night," 
muttered  she,  "  he  has  promised  to  visit  her  again."  She 
thought  for  a  moment,  and  then  said :  — 

"  I  will  invite  Mrs.  Coleman  and  her  daughters  to 
dine  with  me  on  that  day,  and  spend  the  evening.  I 
will  also  invite  Mr.  Hastings  to  meet  them  here.  He 
can  hardly  refuse,  for  Mrs.  Coleman  is  one  of  the  most 
influential  ladies  in  the  city.  Yes,  that  is  what  I  will 
do ;  and  thus,  Mrs.  Belmonte,  will  I  disappoint  you  for 
once." 

On  the  next  Wednesday  morning,  therefore,  she  told 


188  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

Hastings  that  she  had  invited  Mrs.  Coleman  and  her 
daughters  to  dine  and  spend  the  evening  with  her. 

"  I  hope,"  said  she,  "  that  we  shall  have  the  pleasure 
of  your  company  also,  William." 

Mrs.  Delacy  frequently  called  him  William,  perhaps 
because  she  had  long  known  him,  and  probably  because 
she  thought  it  more  familiar  and  friendly  than  Mr. 
Hastings. 

He  did  not  promise  to  dine  with  her  on  that  day, 
neither  did  he  tell  her  that  he  could  not  be  present  with 
them  on  the  occasion.  He  left  for  his  office,  however, 
fully  determined  not  to  break  his  engagement  with  Mrs. 
Belmonte.  Mrs.  Delacy  waited  her  dinner  for  Mm  a 
little  while,  impatiently ;  but  she  waited  in  vain  —  he  did 
not  come.  About  ten  o'clock  that  night  he  came  home, 
and  went  immediately  to  his  room.  Mrs.  Delacy,  boil- 
ing over  with  rage  and  disappointment,  soon  followed 
him,  and  the  conversation  between  them  is  that  given  in 
the  first  chapter. 

On  that  Wednesday  evening,  she  for  the  first  time, 
openly  showed  to  Hastings  her  jealousy  of  Mrs.  Bel- 
monte. The  words,  "  All  your  time  and  attention  are 
bestowed  upon  Mrs.  Belmonte,"  fully  opened  Hastings' 
eyes  to  the  real  state  of  Mrs.  Delacy's  feelings.  She  was 
sorry  the  moment  after  she  had  mentioned  Mrs.  Bel- 
monte's  name  that  she  had  been  so  indiscreet,  but  it 
was  too  late.  She  had  shown  her  hand,  and  in  doing  so 
she  had  "run  before  her  horse  to  market."  She  had 
also  let  Hastings  know  that  she  knew  where  he  had 
been  spending  the  evening.  This,  too,  she  regretted; 
and  we  see  her,  as  described  in  the  first  chapter,  weep- 
ing in  the  midst  of  her  contending  passions,  and  asking 
Hastings'  forgiveness  for  what  she  had  said.  She  loved 
him  herself,  with  all  her  wild,  fiery,  impetuous  nature, 
but  she  could  not  expect  him  to  return  it.  She  never 


OR,  LIFE  BY  THE   WAT-SIDE.  189 

had  intimated  her  feelings  to  him.  She  only  sought  to 
have  him  marry  her  daughter,  so  that  she  herself  might 
always  live  with  him.  She  had  made  herself  unhappy 
and  miserable  by  what  she  had  said  to  him  that  night, 
and  she  sincerely  wished  Hastings  to  forgive  her.  She 
turned  to  him  for  relief  from  her  troubles,  because  he 
alone  had  the  power  of  granting  it.  He  was  cold  and 
distant,  however.  He  wondered  how  she  knew  where 
he  had  been  passing  the  evening,  and  her  mention  of 
Mrs.  Belmonte's  name  made  all  her  pleading  for  for- 
giveness futile.  She  left  him,  therefore,  and  returned  to 
her  guests,  without  having  obtained  the  relief  which  she 
had  sought.  She  had  said  enough  to  trouble  his  dreams, 
and  make  herself  more  miserable  than  she  had  been 
before. 

The  next  Saturday  night,  Bessy  went  again  to  see 
Mrs.  Delacy.  They  remained  closeted  together  a  long 
time.  When  Bessy  was  about  leaving,  Mrs.  Delacy 
said  •  — 

"  If  your  mistress  should  go  out  alone,  will  you  run 
up  here  and  tell  me  ?  I  will  give  you  more  money,  if 
you  will." 

"  I  will,  mum,"  said  Bessy,  and  the  two  separated  — 
Bessy  to  return  home  in  the  dark,  and  Mrs.  Delacy  to 
follow  her  own  dark  thoughts.  The  latter  had  written 
in  a  disguised  hand  the  note  to  Belmonte,  which  we 
have  read  in  another  chapter.  She  thought  that  the 
result  of  it  would  be,  that  Belmonte  would  be  made 
jealous  of  Hastings,  and  refuse  to  have  him  visit  his 
wife.  If  so,  she  thought  it  not  improbable  that  Mrs. 
Belmonte  and  Hastings  would  meet  each  other  by  ap- 
pointment at  some  other  place  than  Belmonte's  house. 
She  did  not  hesitate  to  place  the  worst  construction  on 
his  visits ;  and  she  readily  supposed  that  their  intimacy 
would  not  be  broken  off  by  a  refusal  on  the  part  of 


190  THE  CROOKED  ELMJ 

Belmonte  to  have  Hastings  call  on  his  wife.  It  was 
because  she  thought  this,  that  she  wished  Bessy  to  let 
her  know  whenever  her  mistress  should  go  out  alone. 
The  last  time  that  Bessy  had  called,  she  had  told  her  of 
Hastings'  visit  in  the  morning  at  eleven  o'clock,  and  she 
rightly  enough  supposed  that  her  letter  to  Belmonte 
was  the  cause  of  it  She  therefore  anxiously  waited 
the  result  of  her  own  plans  so  boldly  commenced. 

A  few.  mornings  after  Bessy's  last  visit  to  Mrs.  De- 
lacy's,  she  came  running  up  to  her  house  again,  half  out 
of  breath ;  and,  as  soon  as  she  was  alone  with  Mrs.  De- 
lacy,  she  said:  — 

"  Missis  has  jis'  went  out  all  by  herself." 

"  How  was  she  dressed,  Bessy  ? 

"  Oh,  she  hab  on  a  brack  dress,  an'  she  hab  on  a  plain 
bonnet,  an'  a  mighty  thick  veil." 

"  Did  she  see  you  when  she  went  out  ?  " 

"  No,  I  peeps  out  de  winder." 

"  Which  way  did  she  go  ?  " 

"  I  seed  her  turn  towards  Broadway.  She  looked  as 
white  as " 

"  Never  mind  your  comparison,"  said  Mrs.  Delacy,  in- 
terrupting her.  "  You  may  run  back  now,  Bessy." 

As  soon  as  Bessy  had  gone,  Mrs.  Delacy  ordered  her 
carriage ;  and  dressing  herself  as  quickly  as  possible,  she 
was  soon  driving  down  Broadway,  eagerly  watching  both 
sides  of  this  crowded  thoroughfare.  She  continued 
down  as  far  as  "  Stewart's,"  and  then  turned,  and  was 
coming  back,  when  she  saw  Mrs.  Belmonte,  not  far 
from  Spring  street,  walking  down  Broadway.  Their 
eyes  met,  although  Mrs.  Belmonte  was  closely  veiled. 
As  soon  as  Mrs.  Delacy  was  past,  she  ordered  her  car- 
riage up  to  the  walk,  and  getting  out,  dismissed  it  and 
followed  on  after  Mrs.  Belmonte,  though  at  some  dis- 
tance behind.  She  saw  her  get  into  a  carriage  in  front 


OK,   LIFE   BY   THE    WAY-SIDE.  191 

of  Thompson's  saloon.  She  watched  it  narrowly,  as  it 
turned  away  and  proceeded  up  Broadway  with  drawn 
curtains,  and  her  jealousy  knew  no  bounds.  She  first 
thought  of  going  at  once  to  Belmonte's  office,  and  of 
telling  him  what  she  had  witnessed ;  but  that,  she  feared, 
would  involve  herself  in  the  business.  "  I  will  return 
home,"  muttered  she,  "  and  write  the  cuckold  another 
note.  I  will  tell  the  stupid  coxcomb  what  a  fool  his 
wife  is  making  of  him."  She  tried  to  keep  up  with  the 
muffled  carriage,  but  it  soon  left  her.  She  saw  it  until 
it  turned  down  Eighth  street  towards  Fifth  Avenue, 
when,  losing  sight  of  it  altogether,  she  hurried  home  as 
fast  as  she  could.  As  soon  as  she  entered  the  house, 
she  hastened  to  her  room,  and  throwing  her  things  on 
the  nearest  chair,  sat  down  at  her  writing-desk  and 
penned  the  following  letter  in  a  disguised  hand. 

"  Wednesday,  A.  M. 

"  SIR,  —  I  wrote  you  not  long  since  and  told  you  to 
look  a  little  more  closely  into  your  domestic  affairs. 
You  will  do  well  to  heed  that  advice.  If  you  doubt 
my  sincerity  in  thus  interesting  myself  in  what  con- 
cerns, or  ought  to  concern  you,  just  ask  one  of  your 
family  where  she  was  this  morning  at  twelve  o'clock, 
and  with  whom  she  passed  her  time.  Au  revoir. 

ONE   WHOSE   EYES  ARE   OPEN." 

This  letter  was  carefully  folded,  and  addressed  to 
Belmonte.  She  then  put  her  things  on  again,  and  be- 
fore 'Mrs.  Belmonte  had  returned  home  it  was  placed 
safely  in  the  post-office.  She  had  gone  so  far  that  she 
could  not  well  recede,  and  she  so  anxiously  awaited  the 
result  of  what  she  had  done,  that  her  troubled  mind 
could  not  rest.  She  feared  that  Hastings  would  sus- 
pect her.  She  was  kept  in  a  continual  nervous  ex- 


192  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

citement  from  what  she  herself  was  doing.  Her  hap- 
piness was  destroyed.  Like  a  gamester  who  has  staked 
his  all  on  the  turn  of  a  card,  she  awaited  the  result  of 
her  plots  with  the  intensest  anxiety  and  fear.  Every 
moment  to  her  was  an  age.  When  she  was  in  Hast- 
ings' presence  she  was  embarrassed,  and  do  what  she 
would  she  could  not  act  naturally.  Her  impetuosity 
and  jealousy  had  led  her  to  an  extremity  where,  as  she 
thought,  happiness  or  ruined  hopes  awaited  her. 

Belmonte  received  her  last  letter,  and,  after  reading  it 
over  two  or  three  times,  started  immediately  with  it  for 
home.  On  arriving  there,  he  at  once  summoned  his 
wife  and  showed  it  to  her.  When  she  first  glanced  at 
its  contents,  her  heart  sunk  within  her ;  but  reading  it 
gave  her  time  to  collect  herself,  and  throwing  it  indig- 
nantly from  her  and  crushing  it  with  her  small  foot,  she 
said,  with  a  look  of  anger  and  haughty  contempt :  — 

"  Tliat  's  all  it  's  fit  for  I  "  Her  proud  spirit  was 
aroused,  and  for  the  moment  she  could  have  defied  a 
legion  of  Mrs.  Delacies.  Her  anger  was  soon  over,  but 
it  had  convinced  Belmonte  of  her  innocence.  He  apol- 
ogized for  having  suspected  her  for  a  moment;  nor  did 
he  again  allude  to  the  subject,  further  than  to  tell  her  to 
invite  Hastings  to  call  as  he  had  before  been  accus- 
tomed to. 

"  I  received,"  said  he,  "  a  letter  similar  to  this,  a  short 
time  before  I  told  you  to  request  Hastings  to  visit  you 
less  frequently.  I  was  foolish  enough  to  let  it  influence 
me.  I  have  now  received  this  from  the  same  person; 
and,  as  a  proof  that  I  disregard  its  contents,  I  wish  you 
to  see  him  as  often  as  you  like,  and  whenever  you 
please." 

Belmonte  was  not  a  jealous  man  naturally.  He  had 
redeeming  traits  of  character,  and  his  confidence  in  his 
wife's  virtue  was  one.  He  knew  that  she  did  not  love 


OR,   LIFE   BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  193 

him  much,  yet  he  trusted  to  her  honor,  and  to  her  natural 
sense  of  right.  This  was  a  noble  trait  in  him,  and  I 
freely  give  him  credit  for  it.  He  had  not  a  high  opinion 
of  female  virtue  generally,  but  he  believed  his  own  wife 
pure  and  honest.  Had  he  followed  the  advice  which 
Mrs.  Delacy  had  given  him,  namely,  to  ask  Mrs.  Bel- 
monte  where,  and  with  whom,  she  had  been  spending 
the  morning,  it  is  quite  probable  that  she  would  have 
been  so  confused  as  to  convince  him  of  her  guilt ;  but 
the  letter  had  put  her  in  possession  of  the  whole  secret 
at  once,  and  her  natural  feelings  of  indignation  for  one 
who  would  use  such  means  to  injure  her,  served  her  in 
the  hour  of  need  as  effectually  as  though  it  had  been 
the  indignation  of  conscious  innocence.  Her  fears  soon 
returned,  however,  and  she  felt  that  a  net  was  inclosing 
her  for  her  ruin.  She  had  promised  Hastings  when  she 
left  him  that  she  would  meet  him  again  in  one  week ; 
but  now  she  could  not  think  of  placing  herself  a  second, 
time  in  the  power  of  Mrs.  Delacy.  She  that  night, 
therefore,  wrote  him  the  following  note :  — 

"  Thursday,  P.  M. 

"  DEAR  WILLIAM  :  —  Please  call  here  to-morrow  after- 
noon,—  I  have  some  news  of  importance  to  tell  you. 
Call  if  you  can  at  three  o'clock. 

Ever  your  CORNELIA." 

This  note  Mrs.  Belmonte  put  into  the  office  on  the 
next  morning,  and  anxiously  awaited  Hastings'  arrival. 
As  soon  as  he  got  it  he  hurried  up  to  see  her,  and  was 
surprised  at  the  intelligence  she  imparted  to  him.  They 
both  thought  that  Mrs.  Delacy  had  written  the  letters  to 
Belmonte.  Hastings  decided  to  leave  Mrs.  Delacy's  as 
soon  as  he  could  do  so  safely.  Mrs.  Belmonte  told  him 
17 


194  THE  CKOOKED   ELM; 

what  her  husband  had  said  about  his  calling  in  future, 
and  he  concluded  to  visit  her  as  he  had  done  previously. 
From  this  on,  he  was  very  seldom  at  Mrs.  Delacy's  din- 
ner table.  He  felt  uncomfortable  when  in  her  presence, 
and  consequently  avoided  her  as  much  as  possible. 

When  Saturday  night  came,  Bessy  went  again  to 
Mrs.  Delacy's.  She  had  nothing  consoling,  however,  for 
her  employer's  ears. 

"  Does  Mr.  Hastings  still  visit  your  mistress  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Delacy. 

«  \es  'm,"  said  Bessy. 

"  Does  Belmonte  see  him  when  he  comes  ?  " 

"  Yes  'm.  Dey  played  drafters  las'  night,  an'  dey 
laughs  and  talks  mose  all  de  time.  Massa  Belmonte 
says  to  Misser  Hastins,  says  he,  '  You  is  no  match  for 
me  in  drafters,  so  you  had  better  go  on  wid  your  chestes 
with  Missis.' " 

"  When  was  this  ?  "  eagerly  asked  Mrs.  Delacy. 

"Las'  night  Well,"  continued  Bessy,  "what  I's 
gwine  to  say  is  jis  this :  Tudder  night,  Massa  Belmonte 
comes  home,  lookin'  as  mad  as  a  naligator,  an'  he  calls 
to  Missis,  an'  han's  her  a  letter !  Missis  reads  de  letter 
'tentively,  and  den  she  throws  it  away,  and  kicks  it  with 
her  foot,  lookin'  mighty  savage.  An'  I  heered  her  say, 
*  dat  am  all  it 's  fit  for ! '  Lor5 !  if  you  could  a  seed 
Missis  through  de  crack  ob  de  door !  Did  n't  she  look 
like  de  Lady  Macbest  at  de  theatre  tudder  night!  I 
reckon  she  did  ! " 

"  When  was  this  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Delacy. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  Bessy,  scratching  her  head ;  "  It 
was  on  Thursday." 

"What  did  Mr.  Belmonte  say?" 

"  Oh,  he  talks  sweet  things  to  Missis,  an'  'pologises. 
Dat  is  all  I  seed,  for  I  was  mighty  feer'd  dat  Massa 
would  see  me  through  de  crack  ob  de  door." 


OR,   LIFE  BY   THE  WAY-SIDE.  195 

"  Has  Mr.  Hastings  called  there  since  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Delacy. 

"  Yes  'm  —  he  was  dah  yes'day  in  de  arternoon." 

"  Did  he  remain  long  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  'mained  a  long  time,  an'  talks  to  Missis,  but 
I  didn't  heer  what  dey  said." 

Mrs.  Delacy  then  dismissed  her ;  and,  retiring  to  her 
own  room,  felt  all  the  mortification  of  failure.  She  re- 
solved, however,  not  to  give  the  matter  up  yet.  "  If  I, 
by  what  I  have  done,"  muttered  she,  "  have  incurred  the 
displeasure  of  William,  I  will  die  rather  than  not  be  re- 
venged on  her.  Could  I  have  a  greater  contempt  for  a 
human  being  than  I  have  for  that  insignificant,  ninny  hus- 
band of  hers !  He  deserves  to'  be  cozened,  —  the  brain- 
less fool !  He  showed  my  letter  to  her !  That  is  unfor- 
tunate, for  I  fear  she  will  tell  William ;  if  so,  he  will 
mistrust  me,  after  what  I  have  already  said  to  him. 
'  Come  what  come  may,'  however,  I  will  not  give  up 
the  game  yet.  If  my  hopes  are  to  be  thus  suddenly 
blasted,  I  will  take  good  care  that  one  other  shall  also 
taste  the  bitter  fruits  of  disappointment.  I  dare  do  any 
thing  to  attain  the  one  goal!  —  missing  that,  life  is 
of  no  more  worth  to  me.  I  will  go  on,  although  in 
doing  so  I  accomplish  my  own  ruin !  " 

Thus  did  Mrs.  Delacy  reason,  as  she  sat  alone  in  her 
room.  All  had  retired  but  herself.  She  was  wild  at 
the  thought  of  losing  Hastings'  esteem;  and,  in  the 
depths  of  her  despair,  she  resolved  not  to  sink  below 
the  waves  that  threatened,  without  carrying  one  other 
down  with  her.  Hers  was  the  despair  of  a  wild  and 
desperate,  but  disappointed  love !  such  as  woman  alone 
can  feel ! 


CHAPTER    XVI. 


WEEKS  passed  away  without  effecting  any  change 
in  the  friendly  intercourse  between  Mrs.  Belmonte  and 
Hastings.  Mrs.  Delacy  was  anxiously  waiting  an  op- 
portunity when  she  might  strike  a  last  blow  to  the 
hopes  of  her  daughter's  successful  rival.  Hers  was 
the  suspense  of  the  tigress  before  it  leaps  upon  its 
prey. 

It  was  a  morning  in  the  middle  of  winter.  The 
snow  had  fallen  on  the  streets  during  the  night  to  the 
depth  of  one  foot  or  more.  Men  and  women  were 
shovelling  it  from  their  door-steps  and  from  the  nag- 
ging in  front  of  their  houses,  and  piling  it  in  the  gutters. 
The  trees,  scattered  here  and  there  through  the  city,  and 
those  in  the  different  parks,  were  snow-capt,  and  bend- 
ing beneath  their  fleecy  and  wintry  loads.  Omnibuses, 
drawn  by  four  hot  and  smoking  horses,  were  making 
their  slow  way  towards  the  Battery,  half-axle-deep  in 
snow  and  mud.  Mammoth  sleighs,  drawn  by  six,  eight, 
and  even  ten  horses,  and  filled  to  overflowing  with 
men,  women,  and  children,  moved  down  Broadway, 
making  the  air  resonant  with  their  shouts  of  mirth  and 
glee.  Occasionally  a  man,  in  trying  to  get  on  to  one 
of  these  winter  conveyances,  tumbled  headlong  into  the 
snow,  greatly  to  the  amusement  of  servant  girls,  who 
stood  peeping  out  from  basement  windows,  and  the  boys 


OK,   LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  197 

who  were  making  themselves  merry,  by  pelting  the  oc- 
cupants of  the  different  sleighs  with  snowballs.  It  con- 
tinued to  snow,  and  the  people  continued  to  shovel 
and  sweep  the  side-walks,  and  to  ride  down  Broadway 
to  the  music  of  joyous  laughter  and  the  jingling  of 
merry  bells.  William  Hastings,  having  rode  down  in 
one  of  the  omnibuses  aforesaid,  was  in  his  office.  His 
heavy  overcoat  had  been  laid  aside,  and  he  was  seated 
by  his  fire  looking  over  the  "  Morning  Herald,"  to  see 
the  txact  depth  of  the  snow,  and  the  exact  state  of  cur- 
rent events  generally,  when  in  stepped  a  lad  with  a  red 
and  glowing  face,  and,  familiarly  walking  up  to  Hast- 
ings, said:  — 

"I  have  brought  you  a  letter,  Mr.  Hastings,  from 
cousin  Lib." 

"  Ah !  Charley,  my  lad,  you  are  stirring  early  this 
morning.  Your  cheeks  are  as  rosy  as  little  Clara's, 
whom  they  say  you  admire  so  much." 

This  Hastings  said  while  Charley  was  trying  to  take 
the  letter  from  an  outside  jacket  pocket,  half  filled  with 
snow. 

"  There  it  is  at  last,"  said  Charley,  "  and  wet  enough, 
to  be  sure.  Cousin  Lib  wouldn't  thank  me  much,  if 
she  could  see  it."  This  he  said  as  though  he  thought 
the  wetting  of  the  letter  was  a  very  good  joke. 

"  I  think,  Charley,  that  your  cousin  Lib  was  crying 
when  she  wrote  this.  It  is  soaked  with  her  tears." 
Charley  laughed,  and  turned  his  back  to  the  fire  to  dry, 
while  Jhe  waited  for  Hastings  to  read  and  answer  the 
letter.  Hastings  opened  and  read :  — 

"  DEAR  MR.  HASTINGS  :  —  The  snow  is  deep  enough 

now  to  remind  you  of  your  promise.     Kate  and  Cle- 

mie  Coleman  are  here,  and  they  say  they  are  dying  for  a 

17* 


198  THE  CROOKED  ELM  ; 

genuine  old  fashioned  sleigh-ride.  Mollie  Delacy,  I  am 
sure  is  in  a  bad  way  for  the  same  reason,  to  say  nothing 
of  her  dear  mama.  I  won't  attempt  a  description  of  my 
own  feelings  on  so  exciting  a  subject.  Suffice  it  to  say, 
that  the  jingle  of  bells  in  imagination  has  quite  intoxi- 
cated me.  I  remain,  LIB  LEIGHTON,  — 
and  as  you  will  doubtless  think,  '  a  little  over  the  bay?  " 
"  Tuesday  morning-." 

When  Hastings  finished  reading  it  he  turned  1  *  his 
desk,  and  commenced  writing  an  answer. 

"I'll  warrant,"  said  Charley,  "that  Lib  has  been 
writing  some  of  her  nonsense,  for  I  heard  her  and  Kate 
Coleman  laughing  in  Lib's  room,  before  I  started  down 
here.  I  would  not  answer  it  if  I  were  in  your  place, 
Mr.  Hastings.  It  will  serve  them  just  right."  Hastings 
smiled  at  this  advice  of  Charley's,  and  continued  writing. 
When  he  had  finished  it,  he  put  it  into  an  envelope,  and 
addressing  it,  handed  it  to  Charley,  saying :  — 

"  Now  don't  give  this  the  baptism  you  gave  your 
cousin  Lib's,  or  she  will  never  be  able  to  read  it." 

"  Oh ! "  said  Charley,  "  I  will  take  care  that  your  letter 
is  kept  dry ;  but  Lib's  was  n't  worth  looking  after."  He 
left  with  the  letter,  and,  after  stopping  frequently  to  have 
a  turn  with  the  boys  at  snowballing,  reached  home, 
where  Miss  Leighton  was  anxiously  awaiting  him. 

"  Why,  how  long  you  have  been !  What  has  kept 
you  ?  "  asked  Miss  Leighton,  reprovingly. 

"Do  you  think,"  said  Charley,  indignantly,  "that  I 
can  run  through  the  snow  as  fast  as  a  grey-hound  to  do 
your  messages  ?  And  then  your  letter  got  so  wet  that 
Mr.  Hastings  couldn't  read  it."  This  he  said,  as  he 
lazily  fumbled  about  in  his  pockets  as  if  in  search  of 
something. 


OR,   LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  199 

"  How  stupid  you  were  to  let  my  letter  get  wet!  Do 
hurry  and  find  his  answer ! " 

Charley  purposely  kept  her  in  suspense,  and  after 
searching  his  pockets  some  time  without  finding  it,  he 
said :  —  « 

«  I  reaUy  believe  I  have  lost  it." 

"  You  good-for-nothing ! "  said  Miss  Leighton,  quite 
vexed  with  him.  "  If  you  have  lost  it,  you  deserve  a  good 
whipping  for  your  carelessness !  Run  straight  back 
again,  and  tell  Mr.  Hastings  that  you  have  lost  his 
letter ! " 

Charley  still  continued  to  rummage  in  his  pockets, 
turning  them  inside  out,  and  pretending  to  be  in  a  dread- 
fully perplexed  state  of  mind  at  not  being  able  to  find 
the  letter,  which  he  knew  ah1  the  while  was  in  his  cap. 
He  at  length  suddenly  recollected  where  he  had  put  it, 
and  gave  it  to  his  impatient  cousin,  who  thanked  him 
for  it  thus :  — 

"  Now  do  leave  the  room,  stupid."  She  opened  it 
and  read  as  follows :  — 

"  DEAR  LIB  :  —  Your  little  note,  immersed  in  tears,  has 
just  been  handed  me  by  Charley.  The  dying  condition 
of  your  friends  is  truly  alarming.  Something  must  be 
done,  and  that  speedily.  So,  if  you  and  they  are  agree- 
able, we  will  turn  your  imaginary  bells  into  real  ones 
this  evening.  I  will  call  with  Mrs.  and  Miss  Delacy 
about  eight  o'clock.  Please  tell  Kate  and  Clemie  so.  I 
already  fancy  myself,  not '  over  the  bay,'  but,  '  over  the 
hills  and  far  away,'  to  the  jingle  of  the  merry,  merry 
beUs.  Deliberately, 

"Tuesday.  W.  HASTINGS." 

When  Miss  Leighton  finished  reading  it,  she  des- 
patched a  message  to  Kate  and  Clemie  Coleman,  telling 


200  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

them  the  welcome  news.  All  was  preparation  and  joy- 
ous excitement,  in  anticipation  of  the  promised  sleigh- 
ride.  Two  or  three  times,  snowing  as  it  was,  did  Kate 
Coleman  trip  over  to  see  Miss  Leighton  during  the  day. 
They  livM  but  a  few  blocks  apart ;  and  the  anxiety  as 
to  what  they  should  wear,  and  what  they  should  do,  and 
generally  as  to  how  the  whole  thing  should  be  managed, 
kept  them  running  back  and  forth  every  few  hours  to 
plan  and  fix  and  arrange.  They  were  on  the  qui  vive 
of  excitement  and  expectation. 

Miss  Leighton  was  in  remarkably  good  spirits.  Hast- 
ings's  note  had  pleased  her.  It  was  the  first  time  that 
he  had  addressed  her  as  Dear  Lib.  She  read  it  over 
many  times  during  the  day.  It  made  her  happier  than 
any  letter,  either  long  or  short,  had  ever  done  before. 
She  had  received  a  great  many,  and  from  a  great  many 
people,  but  never  one  that  pleased  her  half  as  much  as 
that  little  note,  commencing  Dear  Lib 

Hastings  had  sent  a  note  to  Mrs.  Delacy  telling  her 
of  the  anticipated  sleigh-ride,  and  she  went  down  to  see 
Miss  Leighton,  and  assist  her  in  arranging  for  it.  A 
few  hours  after  Hastings  had  answered  Miss  Leighton's 
note,  he  received  one  from  Mrs.  Belmonte,  informing 
him  that  she  and  her  husband,  with  several  friends, 
were  going  sleigh-riding  that  night,  and  saying  that  they 
would  be  most  happy  if  he  would  consent  to  be  one  of 
the  number.  When  he  had  finished  reading  her  note, 
he  said  to  himself :  "  I  can't  go.  I  must  be  persecuted 
by  accompanying  those  whom  I  care  nothing  about.  I 
wish  I  was  free  from  them ;  I  will  be  erelong,  I  hope, 
and  then  I  can  do  as  I  please."  Thus  did  he  think,  as 
he  turned  to  his  desk  and  penned  the  following  note :  — 

"  DEAR  MRS.  B. :  - 1  have  promised  to  take  my  partic- 
ular friends  sleigh-riding  to-night,  and  in  consequence  I 


OR,   LIFE  BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  201 

am  compelled  to  forego  the  pleasure  of  your  kind  invita- 
tion. To-morrow  night,  or  any  other,  while  the  snow 
lasts,  I  shall  be  delighted  to  take  you  and  your  friends 
on  a  similar  excursion.  With  regrets  that  I  cannot 
accompany  you  to-night,  and  wishing  you  ah1  the  pleas- 
ure imaginable,  I  remain  Sincerely, 

"Tuesday.  WM.  HASTINGS." 

Mrs.  Belmonte  was  disappointed,  when  she  read  this 
note.  She  prevailed  upon  her  husband  to  postpone 
their  sleigh-ride  until  the  next  night.  She  felt  a  little 
jealous  of  Hastings'  "  particular  friends."  It  was  un- 
pleasant for  her  to  think  that  she  could  not  have  the 
pleasure  of  the  first  sleigh-ride  with  her  «  Willie.'j  She 
expected  that  he  would  call  and  see  her  during  the  day, 
but  she  looked  for  him  in  vain. .  Hastings  had  intended 
to  drop  in  and  see  her,  but  he  was  unexpectedly  detained 
down  town  until  a  late  hour,  and  thus  prevented  doing 
what  his  heart  dictated.  Mrs.  Belmonte  did  not  sleep 
well  that  night,  although  she  continually  accused  herself 
of  being  very  silly  for  bestowing  a  thought  upon  her 
disappointment. 

A  little  before  eight  o'clock  that  evening,  a  beautiful 
sleigh,  drawn  by  four  spirited  horses  and  almost  filled 
with  furs  and  robes,  turned  up  at  Mrs.  Delacy's  door. 
Mrs.  Delacy,  her  daughter,  and  Hastings  ^ot  into  it, 
and  driving  rapidly  away,  soon  took  in  the  remainder 
of  the  party.  They  were  all  gleeful,  joyous,  and  happy, 
as  they  flew  rapidly  away  to  the  music  of  the  merrily 
jingling  bells.  As  soon  as  they  were  fairly  out  of  the 
city,  they  yielded  themselves  up  to  the  hilarious  excite- 
ment of  the  occasion.  They  laughed  and  sang  songs, 
and  then  laughed  again,  until  the  air  resounded  with 
their  merry  peals.  They  started  for  High  Bridge  on 
the  Bloomingdale  road.  Hundreds  of  sleighs  were 


202  THE  CROOKED   ELM  ; 

meeting,  passing,  and  following  them.  It  seemed  as 
though  all  New  York  had  gone  on  a  general  sleighing 
excursion.  The  moon  shone  brightly,  which,  with  the 
snow,  made  the  night  almost  as  clear  and  light  as  day. 
Miss  Leighton  was  all  life,  all  enjoyment.  She  was 
the  gayest  and  liveliest  of  the  party.  Hastings,  too, 
(shame  to  say,)  entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  occasion, 
and  never  had  made  himself,  generally,  more  agreeable 
in  his  life.  They  had  driven  to  High  Bridge,  and  were 
returning  fuller  of  life,  glee,  and  good  feeling  than  ever. 
The  champagne  they  had  drank  at  the  Bridge  made 
them  no  less  noisy  than  they  had  been,  to  say  the  leas^t. 
All  was  going  "  merry  as  a  marriage  bell,"  when,  as 
they  were  descending  a  long  hill,  the  horses  suddenly 
took  fright  and  became  unmanageable.  When  they 
had  run  a  little  distance,  Hastings  stepped  forward  on 
to  the  box,  and  took  the  reins  from  the  driver.  He  held 
them  steadily  in  the  road  for  some  time,  but  could  not 
check  them.  It  was  with  difficulty  that  he  avoided 
running  into  the  many  sleighs  that  he  met  and  the 
many  that  he  passed.  The  ladies  had  expressed  their 
fears  in  screams  at  first,  but  they  soon  settled  into  a 
breathless  quiet.  On  and  on  they  went,  the  horses 
becoming  more  and  more  unmanageable  every  moment. 
The  leaders  commenced  kicking,  and  ran  wildly  from 
side  to  side,  maddened  and  perfectly  uncontrollable. 
The  snow  was  thrown  from  their  feet  into  Hastings' 
face  until  he  was  no  longer  able  to  see.  On  they  flew, 
past  trees,  fences,  and  sleighs,  at  a  fearful  pace,  when, 
suddenly  coming  in  collision  with  a  large  rock,  Hastings 
and  the  driver  were  hurled  headlong  into  the  snow. 
The  horses  became  detached  from  the  sleigh,  and  ran 
madly  on.  The  driver  soon  picked  himself  up,  but 
Hastings  lay  insensible  from  the  shock.  None  of  the 
ladies  were  injured,  and  they  soon  recovered  sufficiently 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  203 

from  their  fright  to  get  out  and  look  for  Hastings. 
They  were  horrified  when  they  saw  his  seemingly  life- 
less body  taken  from  the  ground  by  the  driver,  assisted 
by  some  men  who  had  got  out  of  their  sleighs  in  pass- 
ing. They  had  him  placed  in  his  own  sleigh,  and  then, 
gathering  around  him,  tried  to  restore  him  to  life.  Very 
soon  a  multitude  of  people  had  assembled,  curious  to 
know  what  had  happened.  Hastings  was  soon  suffi- 
ciently recovered  to  be  able  to  ride  home.  His  party  re- 
turned to  the  city,  as  sorrowful  as  it  had  been  mirthful. 
It  was  ascertained,  when  Hastings  was  safely  deposited 
in  his  own  room,  that  three  of  his  ribs  were  broken,  and 
that  he  had  received  a  severe  contusion  on  the  side  and 
back  of  his  head.  His  wounds  were  soon  dressed  by 
his  physician,  and  his  life  pronounced  out  of  danger. 
The  next  day,  Hastings  ordered  paper  and  ink  to  be 
brought  him,  and  with  difficulty  he  penned  the  follow- 
ing note,  as  he  lay  scarcely  able  to  move  in  his  bed. 

"  DEAK  MRS.  B :  —  I  was  thrown  from  my  sleigh 

last  night,  and  so  much  injured  that  I  will  be  deprived 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  for  several  days.  Nothing 
serious,  however.  Always  the  same, 

"  Wednesday  morning.  WM.  HASTINGS." 

As  soon  as  he  had  written  and  addressed  this  note,  he 
despatched  a  servant  with  it  to  Mrs.  Belmonte.  When 
Mrs.  Belmonte  read  it,  she  was  much  alarmed.  She 
wished  that  he  was  at  her  own  house.  It  would  not  be 
safe,  she  thought,  to  visit  him  at  Mrs.  Delacy's.  She 
questioned  the  servant  who  had  brought  the  letter,  and 
learned  from  her  that  Hastings  was  much  worse  than 
she  had  been  led  to  suppose,  from  what  he  had  writ- 
ten. She  became  excited  and  apprehensive,  and  knew 
not  what  to  do.  At  last  she  told  the  servant  to  wait  in 


204  THE   CROOKED   ELM  ; 

the  hall  until  she  wrote  an  answer  to  the  letter.  As 
soon  as  she  was  in  her  room  alone,  she  burst  into  tears. 
The  servant  had  represented  Hastings  as  almost  dead, 
and  Mrs.  Belmonte  really  feared  that  he  would  die 
without  her  seeing  him.  In  her  anxiety  and  excitement 
she  tied  on  her  bonnet,  resolved  to  go  at  once  to  him, 
but  her  fears  of  Mrs.  Delacy  led  her  to  take  it  off  again. 
After  a  great  deal  of  indecision  and  irresolution,  she 
penned  the  following  note,  guarding  every  word  through 
fear  of  Mrs.  Delacy. 

"  MY  DEAR  FRIEND  : —  I  have  just  read  your  alarming 
note,  and  am  much  concerned  about  you.  I  fear  you 
have  not  told  me  your  real  danger.  I  know  not  what  to 
do.  I  would  come  at  once  to  you,  but  I  fear  that  you 
would  think  it  indiscreet.  Write  me  one  word,  if  you 
are  able,  and  tell  me  just  how  'much  to  fear.  If  you  are 
dangerously  ill  I  will  hurry  to  you  at  once  —  at  all  risk, 
and  in  the  face  of  every  danger. 

"  I  am  unhappy  and  miserable  until  I  hear  from  you 
again.  I  will  send  for  Walter,  and  have  him  go  and 
see  you  as  soon  as  he  comes.  Write  me  a  word  at 
once,  do.  Ever, 

CORNELIA  BELMONTE." 

Although  Mrs.  Belmonte  thought  that  she  was  par- 
ticularly guarded  in  the  use  of  her  language  in  writing 
to  Hastings,  yet  a  disinterested  person  might  think  dif- 
ferently. 

As  soon  as  the  servant  returned  with  Mrs.  Belmonte's 
letter,  Mrs.  Delacy  took  it,  and  despatched  the  servant  on 
an  errand  down  town  that  would  keep  her  absent  an 
hour  or  more.  She  then  retired  to  her  own  room,  and, 
locking  herself  in,  deliberately  but  carefully  opened  and 
read  it.  When  she  had  finished  reading  it  she  sealed  il  up 


OR,   LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  205 

and  sent  it  in  to  Mr.  Hastings,  muttering  as  she  did  so : 
"  It  is  well  you  fear  to  come  here.  I  will  turn  your  fear 
into  terror,  and  your  terror  into  destruction  and  utter 
ruin.  I  have  warned  you  sufficiently.  I  will  now  show 
you  that  I  am  powerful  to  act,  as  well  as  threaten.  A 
pretty  letter  for  a  wife  to  send  him ! "  Miss  Leighton 
and  Kate  Coleman  called,  the  day  after  the  accident,  to 
see  how  Hastings  was.  They  even  went  with  Mrs.  De- 
lacy  into  his  room,  and  were  glad  to  see  that  he  was 
doing  well,  and  feeling  mirthful,  or  at  least  seeming  to 
feel  so. 

"  I  should  be  up  and  at  my  office,"  said  Hastings,  "  if 
the  doctor  was  only  a  little  less  timid.  He  says  I  must 
lie  here  for  days  yet,  and  perhaps  weeks.  If  he  don't 
change  his  views  soon,  I  will  dismiss  him  and  employ 
another." 

This  was  said  in  the  doctor's  presence,  and  of  course 
not  seriously. 

"  I  am  to  blame  for  all  this  mischief,"  said  Miss 
Leighton,  "  but  I  intend  to  see  that  you  are  well  taken 
care  of.  It  is  too  serious  a  matter  to  be  mirthful  over." 
Belmonte  entered  the  room  while  they  were  still  there, 
and  was  surprised  to  find  Hastings  so  badly  bruised  and 
injured.  Miss  Leighton  gave  him  a  full  description  of 
the  runaway  and  the  accident.  She  wound  up  by  say- 
ing, that  she  herself  was  the  only  person  to  blame  for  it 
all ;  for,  said  she :  — 

"  Mr.  Hastings  went  at  -my  suggestion." 

Hastings  did  not  write  to  Mrs.  Belmonte  again  that 
day,  but  trusted  to  her  husband  to  give  her  an  account 
of  his  injuries.  When  Belmonte  went  home,  he  told 
Mrs.  Belmonte  all  about  Hastings'  condition.  He  also 
related  to  her  what  Miss  Leighton  had  said,  and  told  her 
who  were  in  Hastings'  room.  This  intelligence  was  un- 
18 


206  THE   CROOKED    ELM; 

pleasant  to  her,  for  more  reasons  than  one.  She  went 
to  her  room  as  soon  as  she  could  get  away  from  Bel- 
monte,  and  wept  bitterly — partly  in  sorrow  for  Hast- 
ings, and  partly  because  her  jealousy  of  Miss  Leighton 
made  her  unhappy.  She  could  not  endure  the  thought 
of  her  visiting  his  room  so  familiarly.  "  Why,"  thought 
she,  "  does  he  not  write  me  one  word,  as  I  requested  ? 
He  did  not  call  here  yesterday,  either.  There  is  something 
that  1  do  not  understand  in  this  seeming  coldness." 
The  next  morning  she  sent  her  husband  to  see  Hastings 
again  ;  and  on  his  return  she  learned  that  Miss  Leighton 
was  still  there.  Her  jealousy  was  gaining  strength  more 
and  more  every  hour.  She  finally,  in  her  impatience, 
sent  Bessy  with  a  note  to  him.  Bessy  gave  it  to  Mrs. 
Delacy ;  and,  before  she  left,  Mrs.  Delacy  said  to  her :  — 
"  Bessy,  if  your  mistress  sends  you  with  any  more  letters, 
give  them  to  me,  and  to  no  one  else." 

"  Yes  'm,"  replied  the  wench,  not  however  without 
wondering  why  Mrs.  Delacy  should  wish  to  have  her 
mistress's  letters  given  to  her,  before  Hastings  should 
receive  them.  When  Bessy  had  gone,  Mrs.  Delacy  went 
immediately  to  her  room,  and  opened  the  letter  wliich 
had  been  handed  her.  It  read  as  follows: — 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  William,  do  send  me  one  word 
telling  me  how  you  are.  I  am  dying  with  suspense  and 
trouble.  CORNELIA." 

When  Mrs.  Delacy  had  read  this  little  note,  she  sat 
in  silence  for  some  minutes,  thinking.  She  had  reached 
a  point  where  she  hesitated.  There  are  times  in  life, 
when,  like  a  mariner,  we  pause  and  take  our  bearings, 
our  latitude  and  longitude,  before  venturing  forward. 
So  with  Mrs.  Delacy ;  she  saw  shoals  and  breakers  on 


OR,   LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  207 

almost  every  side.  There  was  danger  that  all  her  hopes 
would  be  wrecked,  before  she  could  get  out  into  the  clear 
and  wide  ocean  again.  It  was  a  moment  of  peril,  and 
she  fully  knew  it.  At  length,  as  if  decided  as  to  what 
she  would  do,  she  said  :  —  "I  will  do  it !  It  is  too  late 
to  recede.  I  will  peril  every  thing  to  break  off  their 
intimacy ! "  Then,  taking  her  pen,  she  copied  Mrs.  Bel- 
monte's  hand  until  she  could  imitate  it  so  nearly  that 
Hastings  would  not  be  likely,  she  thought,  to  discover 
the  deception.  She  then  wrote  as  follows  :  — 

"  DEAR  MR.  HASTINGS  :  —  I  am  surprised  that  you  do 
not  write  me  one  word,  as  requested.  Is  your  time  so 
agreeably  occupied  as  to  make  you  forget  me  ?  "Wal- 
ter tells  me  that  Miss  Leighton  is  constantly  with  you. 

CORNELIA  BELMONTE." 

When  Mrs.  Delacy  had  finished  the  above  note,  she 
placed  it  in  an  envelope,  similar  to  the  one  which  Mrs. 
Belmonte  had  sent,  and,  directing  and  sealing  it,  sent  it 
to  Hastings.  When  he  read  it,  he  was  surprised 
to  see  how  little  Mrs.  Belmonte  seemed  to  sympathize 
with  him  in  his  sickness.  "  Walter  tells  me,  that  Miss 
Leighton  is  constantly  with  you,"  he  read  from  her  let- 
ter. "  She  is  jealous,"  muttered  he  —  "jealous  of  Miss 
Leighton.  Can  it  be  possible  that  she  has  no  more  con- 
fidence in  me  than  that  ?  " 

He  ordered  his  writing  materials  to  be  brought  him, 
and  taking  a  pen,  he  wrote :  — 

"  DEAR  MRS.  BELMONTE  :  —  I  would  have  written  you 
yesterday,  had  not  Belmonte  called  —  and  had  it  been 
less  difficult  for  me  to  write  than  it  is.  Miss  Leighton 
is  here,  but  not  in  accordance  with  my  wishes.  I  shall 
soon  be  up  again,  I  hope,  and  my  first  visit  will  be  to 


208  THE   CROOKED   ELM  J 

see  you.  I  wish  I  could  have  you  here  to  read  to  me, 
and  to  converse  with.  No  one  can  fill  your  place  in 
my  thoughts  —  no  one  ever  shall.  I  am  improving 
rapidly.  I  shall  soon  see  you. 

"  Ever  your 

"  WILLIAM  HASTINGS." 

This  letter  was  given  to  Bessy  when  finished,  who  at 
once  carried  it,  as  she  had  been  instructed,  to  Mrs.  De- 
lacy,  and  then  waited  for  Mrs.  Delacy's  orders.  The 
latter  hurried  with  it  to  her  room,  and  opening,  read  its 
contents.  Then  seating  herself  at  her  writing-table,  she 
wrote  in  a  hand  as  like  Hastings  as  she'  could,  as  fol- 
lows :  — 

"  DEAR  MRS.  BELMONTE  :  —  My  hand  trembles  so  that 
I  can  with  difficulty  write.  I  should  have  written  you 
yesterday,  but  Miss  Leighton  was  in  my  room  reading 
to  me  nearly  the  whole  day.  They  are  very  kind  to  me 
here,  and  anticipate  all  my  wants.  I  shall  soon  be 
well  again  with  so  much  kind  treatment.  Miss  Leigh- 
ton  is  sitting  near  me  while  I  write,  and  joins  me  in 
love  to  you.  WILLIAM  HASTINGS." 

This  letter  was  substituted  for  the  one  Hastings  had 
written,  and  carried  by  Bessy  to  her  mistress.  Mrs.  Bel- 
monte  read  it,  and  then  went  again  to  her  room  and 
indulged  in  a  fit  of  crying. 

"  Can  it  be  possible,"  thought  she,  "  that  this  is  the 
Willie  whom  I  have  so  long  loved  ?  tie  has  forgotten 
me  in  two  days,  and  is  wholly  taken  up  -with  Miss 
Leighton."  Sometimes  she  felt  indignant,  at  others 
she  was  the  most  unhappy  and  miserable  of  beings. 
Her  love  was  too  deep-rooted  to  be  easily  overturned. 
She  resolved,  however,  not  to  write  to  Hastings  again, 
until  she  had  received  another  letter  from  him.  Hast- 


OR,  LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  209 

ings  waited  impatiently  a  day  or  two  for  a  letter 
from  her ;  but  none  coming,  he  wrote  the  follow- 
ing:— 

"DEAREST  CORNELIA: — Why  do  you  delay  writing 
me  ?  Do  send  me  one  cheering  word  —  one  word  of 
love  and  hope.  I  am  dying  with  impatience  to  hear 
from  you.  I  am  bored  to  death  with  Miss  Leighton  and 
Mrs.  Delacy,  who  are  eternally  in  my  room,  whenever  I 
allow  them.  Write  me  at  once.  I  am  much  better 
I  shall  soon  be  able  to  call  on  you.  —  That  thought 
cheers  me,  and  gives  me  courage  to  endure  the  persecu- 
tions of  my  particular  friends.  Ever  your 

WILLIAM." 

Mrs.  Delacy  read  this  letter  with  flashing  eyes.  "  He 
is  bored  to  death,  is  he  ?  "  muttered  she.  "  What  does 
he  mean  by  the  '  persecutions  of  his  particular  friends  ? ' 
I  will  keep  this  love  of  a  letter,  Mrs.  Belmonte,  and  write 
you  one  myself.  It  is  too  precious  to  part  with. 
The  ungrateful!  I  almost  wish  he  had  broke  his 
neck,  instead  of  his  ribs.  She  then  wrote  the  fol- 
lowing :  — 

"  DEAR  MRS.  BELMONTE  :  —  I  am  getting  on  wonder- 
fully !  Miss  Leighton  is  here  every  day,  and  cheers  me 
by  reading  and  singing  to  me.  She  has  just  been  read- 
ing some  choice  passages  from  Byron.  I  never  before 
appreciated  '  Childe  Harold?  Belmonte  told  me  he  was 
going  'out  of  town  for  a  day  or  two,  when  he  was  here 
last.  I  suppose  he  has  not  yet  returned.  My  spirits 
were  never  better  under  difficulties  than  now.  I  wish 

you  would  send  me 's  last  novel.     I  believe  you 

have  it.     Miss  Leighton  expressed  a  wish  to  read  it. 
18* 


210  THE  CROOKED  ELM; 

When  you  have  leisure,  please  write  me.     Now  I  think 
of  it,  you  are  one  letter  in  my  debt. 
With  the  best  of  wishes,  I  am  still, 

WILLIAM  HASTINGS." 

When  Mrs.  Belmonte  read  this  counterfeit  letter,  she 
became  almost  distracted.  Her  heart  sickened.  She 
felt  for  the  moment  that  Hastings  no  longer  loved  her 
"  My  confidence  has  been  misplaced,"  she  thought.  "  I 
have  believed  him  noble  and  true.  I  have  worshipped 
him  as  the  soul  of  honor  —  I  have  been  deceived. 
Never  will  I  place  confidence  in  another  living  mortal." 
It  was  with  difficulty  that  Mrs.  Belmonte  could  bring 
herself  to  believe  Hastings  dishonorable.  She  doubted, 
feared,  and  was  unhappy. 

Belmonte  was  compelled  to  leave  for  the  South  to 
attend  to  some  business.  He  persuaded  Mrs.  Belmonte 
to  accompany  him.  It  was  with  feelings  of  regret, 
however,  that  she  consented  to  leave  the  city  before  she 
could  see  Hastings.  The  time  drew  near  when  they 
must  go.  A  day  or  two  before  they  left,  Mrs.  Belmonte 
wrote  the  following  letter,  and  sent  it  to  Hastings :  — 

"DEAR  WILLIAM:  —  Walter  has  prevailed  upon  me  to 
accompany  him  to  Florida.  We  shall  be  absent  several 
months.  With  what  regrets  and  feelings  of  sorrow  do  I 
leave  without  seeing  you.  Your  letters  have  seemed  to 
me  cold.  I  have  read  them,  and  felt  that  they  did  not 
express  the  feelings  of  the  '  Willie '  whom  I  have  wor- 
shipped from  my  childhood.  I  cannot  believe,  though, 
that  you  have  so  soon  forgotten  me.  All  my  thoughts 
of  you  tell  me  that  you  are  true,  noble,  and  constant. 
These  are  what  you  ever  have  been  to  me.  I  will  be- 
lieve you  such  yet.  I  will  forget  your  seeming  coldness, 


OR,   LIFE   B/   THE   WAY-SIDE.  211 

and  wait  until  my  return  to  see  and  talk  with  you  face 
to  face.  When  I  am  absent  I  will  think  of  and  love 
you  as  I  ever  have  done.  The  many  happy  bygones 
that  we  have  enjoyed  together  will  be  ever  present  to 
remind  me  of  one  whose  image  is  enstamped  on  my 
heart  of  hearts.  I  have  been  unhappy,  and  for  the  mo 
ment  have  distrusted  you.  But  I  throw  all  doubt  of 
your  sincejity  to  the  winds.  I  will  have  faith  in  you.  1 
will  love  you  while  life  lasts. 

"  Good-by,  William  !  —  a  fond,  a  loving  good-by 
until  my  return !  You  know  .where  to  write  me  in 
Florida.  We  leave  to-morrow  evening.  Shall  I  not  hear 
from  you  before  then  ?  Ever  your  loving 

"  Monday.  CORNELIA." 

This,  her  last  letter  to  Hastings  before  she  left  the 
city,  was  read  by  Mrs.  Delacy,  and  the  following  one 
substituted  in  its  stead :  — 

"  DEAR  MR.  HASTINGS  :  —  I  am  surprised  that  you 
write  me  so  seldom.  I  am  satisfied  that  you  have 
ceased  to  love  me.  Walter  and  I  leave  for  the  South 
to-morrow,  and  I  hardly  need  say  that  I  shall  not  expect 
to  hear  from  you  again,  since  you  have  other  and  better 
friends  near  you.  CORNELIA  BELMONTE." 

Hastings  was  astounded  when  he  read  this  strange 
letter.  It  shut  the  door  against  his  writing  her  in  future. 

"  She  is  jealous,"  thought  he  ;  "  or  perhaps  she  never 
has  loved  me."  He  resolved  never  to  write  to  her  again. 
'  Mrs.  Belmonte  looked  in  vain  for  an  answer  to  her 
last  letter.  The  hour  came  when  she  must  go  and 
with  a  heavy  heart  she  left  the  city  and  all  that  to  her 
was  dear  in  life. 

Hastings  now  became  so  impatient  and  fretful  that 


212  THE   CROOKED   ELM. 

he  refused  to  have  any  one  come  into  his  room,  except 
the  man  servant  who  attended  him.  Miss  Leighton 
and  ah1  were  deprived  for  weeks  of  seeing  him.  He,  in 
his  anger,  cursed  the  cause  of  all  his  misfortunes.  "  I 
was  a  fool,"  he  would  say  to  himself,  "  to  go  with  a 
party  that  I  cared  nothing  for.  Fate  overshadows  all 
my  actions,  and  gives  me  nothing  but  disappointment 
and  unhappiness. 

Such  is  man's  inconsistency ;  in  hours  of  trouble  he 
lays  at  the  door  of  fate  the  sins  and  mistakes  which  are 
solely  his  own. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 


IT  was  the  latter  part  of  autumn.  The  leaves  were 
turning  purple  and  yellow,  and  falling  from  the  trees. 
The  farmer  was  gathering  in  his  corn,  and  preparing  for 
winter.  Orchards  were  filled  with  ripe  and  luscious 
apples,  which  hung  in  clusters  from  the  half-concealed 
branches,  or  lay  scattered  about  upon  the  grass  under 
the  trees.  In  short,  it  was  that  most  delightful  of 
American  seasons,  bright,  clear,  and  sunshiny  autumn. 
Little  Flora  sat  on  the  grass  in  the  garden,  arranging 
some  flowers  for  Aunt  Judy.  An  espalier,  on  which 
was  trained  a  beautiful  grape-vine  filled  with  bunches 
of  ripe  grapes,  shaded  her  from  the  sun.  Her  little  lap 
was  filled  with  flowers  of  various  kinds,  and,  as  she 
worked  with  them,  she  talked  to  herself  thus :  —  "  Aunt 
Judy  will  like  this  bouquet,  I  am  sure.  It  is  very  pretty ! 
Let  me  see ;  I  will  place  this  large  one  in  the  middle. 
There  —  that  looks  better.  Now  I  will  run  into  her 
room  and  give  it  to  her ;  but  I  will  step  light,  for  it  may 
be  that  she  is  asleep."  As  she  said  this,  she  got  up  and 
ran  to  the  house,  and  walking  on  tiptoe  entered  the 
room  where  Aunt  Judy  was  lying  in  bed. 

The  old  woman  was  not  asleep.  She  looked  pale 
and  emaciated.  She  had  been  sick  for  several  weeks, 
and  the  physician  said  she  could  not  get  well.  Flora 

(213) 


214  THE  CROOKED   ELM; 

handed  her  the  flowers,  which  she  had  brought  from  the 
garden,  saying :  — 

"  Aunt  Judy,  I  have  made  you  a  boquet.  Do  you 
think  it  is  pretty  ?  " 

"  Yes,  darlint,"  said  the  old  woman  in  a  feeble  voice ; 
"  it  is  as  pretty  as  you  are  yourself,  sure.  Put  it  into 
the  tumbler ;  that 's  a  swate  cratur ! " 

Flora  placed  the  flowers  on  a  stand  near  the  head  of 
her  bed,  and  then  asked  her  if  she  wanted  any  thing. 

"  I  'm  thinking  I  '11  take  a  wee  bit  o'  water  th'  drink, 
honey." 

Flora  immediately  went  and  brought  her  what  she 
wished.  Flora  had  learned  to  read ;  and,  every  day 
while  Aunt  Judy  was  sick,  she  read  a  chapter  from  the 
Bible  to  her,  while  she  lay  in  her  bed.  Moulton  was 
very  kind  to  his  old  nurse  in  her  illness,  and  often  would 
sit  for  hours  in  her  room,  watching  with  her  and  minis- 
tering to  her  wants.  One  day  when  he  was  alone  with 
her,  she  said: — 

"  Robin,  honey,  I  must  soon  leave  you.  I  feel  that  I 
cannot  live  much  longer.  Aunt  Judy  has  been  faithful 
to  you,  lad,  and  has  done  all  she  could  for  you.  May 
the  Holy  Vargin  be  praised ! " 

"  You  will  live  a  long  time  yet,  I  hope,"  said  Moulton, 
soothingly. 

"  No,  darlint,  I  must  leave  you  all  alone  with  little 
Flora.  Are  you  sure,  Robin,  that  it  will  all  be  well  with 
the  poor  child?  I  never  have  been  quite  able  to  free 
my  conscience  for  taking  her  away  from  her  old  home. 
Are  you  sure  that  it  will  all  be  right  and  just  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Aunty,"  said  he.  "  I  think  you  were  not  to  blame 
for  taking  her  away.  I  will  see  that  she  is  properly 
taken  care  of ;  and,  when  she  is  a  little  older,  I  will  take 
her  back  to  her  grandpapa's." 


OR,   LIFE  BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  215 

"  May  the  blessing  of  the  Holy  Vargin  be  with  you, 
Robin,  for  saying  so !  I  can  now  die  comfortably." 

She  grew  more  feeble  every  day,  and  it  was  evident 
to  Moulton  that  she  could  not  live  much  longer.  He 
and  Flora  read  to  her  whenever  she  wished  them  to  do 
so.  She  had  been  a  Catholic  almost  all  her  life ;  and, 
though  she  in  theory  had  become  a  Protestant  in  her 
old  age,  yet  she  always  thought  and  spoke  as  a  Catholic. 
Harry  Collingwood  called  almost  every  day  to  see  how 
she  was,  and  to  talk  with  Flora.  He  loved  Aunt  Judy 
because  Flora  loved  her,  and  he  had  come  to  be  quite  a 
favorite  with  the  old  woman. 

The  time  came  at  last,  when  Moulton  Void  and  faith- 
ful nurse  must  leave  him.  She  felt  that  she  was  about 
to  die,  and,  calling  him  to  her  side,  she  said :  — 

"  Robin,  I  feel  that  I  'm  dying.  You  '11  soon  have  no 
Aunt  Judy  to  look  after  and  take  care  of  you.  You 
will  be  all  alone  in  the  wide  world,  lad,  with  no  one  to 
keep  you  from  harm.  I  have  watched  over  you  long  — 
I  have  done  what  I  could  for  you,  but  I  must  now 
leave  you;  stoop  down,  Robin,  till  I  bless  you."  He 
leaned  over  the  bed,  and  she  placed  her  shrivelled  hands 
on  his  head,  and  gave  him  her  parting  blessing. 

"  Call  Flora  in  now,"  said  she,  in  a  voice  scarcely 
audible.  Flora  then  came  into  the  room,  and  Aunt 
Judy  motioned  her  to  come  near.  Flora  walked  cau- 
tiously and  tremblingly  up  to  the  side  of  the  bed,  and, 
leaning  over  it,  took  one  of  Aunt  Judy's  hands  in  both 
of  hers. 

"  Flora,  child,  will  you  forgive  Aunt  Judy  for  stealing 
you  away  from  your  pleasant  home  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  she,  unable  to  say  more.  Tears 
filled  her  eyes.  The  whole  scene  was  new  and  strange 
to  her.  She  still  stood  holding  Aunt  Judy's  hand,  while 


216  THE   CROOKED   ELM  J 

the  tears  flowed  down  her  flushed  cheeks  and  fell  on  the 
bed. 

"  Call   Harry,"  said  the   old  woman  in   a  whisper. 

Harry  immediately  came  to  her,  and  she,  placing  his 
hand  in  Flora's,  said  :  — 

"  May  the  Lord  love  you  both,  and  make  you  happy 
the  'gither  so  long  as  you  live ! "  Moulton  stood  by 
her  side  unable  to  control  his  feelings ;  and  Aunt  Judy 
fixing  her  eyes  on  him,  with  an  ineffable  expression  of 
love  and  tenderness  beaming  from  her  countenance, 
breathed  her  last  without  a  struggle.  The  next  day, 
several  of  Moulton's  neighbors  assembled  to  attend  her 
funeral.  As  they  proceeded  with  her  body  to  the  little 
village  burial-ground  a  few  miles  away,  Moulton,  little 
Flora,  and  Harry  Collingwood  followed  the  hearse  as 
chief  mourners.  Moulton  mourned  the  death  of  his  old 
nurse,  because  she  had  always  loved  him,  and  had  been 
faithful  to  him  in  all  the  strange  vicissitudes  of  his 
eventful  life.  She  was  the  last  of  his  early  friends; 
he  was  now  left  with  none  to  care  for  him,  save  the 
little  girl  whom  he  had  so  strangely  rescued,  as  he  sup- 
posed, from  danger.  Flora  was  dear  to  him.  He  loved 
her  as  his  redeeming  angel.  His  former  life  was  a 
blank;  his  old  friends  had  disappeared;  he  was  a  stran- 
ger in  the  wide  world,  haunted  continually  with  tor- 
turing thoughts  and  memories  of  his  earlier  disappoint- 
ment. 

A  few  weeks  after  Aunt  Judy's  funeral,  Moulton  was 
sitting  with  Mr.  Collingwood  in  the  apple-orchard  of  the 
latter.  The  weather  was  warm  and  pleasant,  and  they 
were  seated  on  the  grass  .under  one  of  the  trees.  They 
had  not  been  there  long,  when  Harry  came  running  up 
to  them  with  a  letter  in  his  hartd  for  his  father. 

Mr.  Collingwood  broke  the  seal,  and  after  reading  it 
he  said :  — 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  217 

"  This  is  from  my  old  and  valued  friend  William 
Hastings,  of  New  York." 

At  the  mention  of  Hastings'  name,  Moulton  turned 
deadly  pale.  Collingwood  noticed  the  sudden  change 
in  his  countenance,  and  said  :  — 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Mowbray  ?  You 
look  ill." 

"It  is  only  a  sudden  pain  in  my  side,"  answered 
Moulton,  as  he  placed  his  hand  over  his  heart.  "  I  will 
soon  be  better." 

Collingwood  immediately  after  resumed  the  subject 
of  his  friend,  and  entered  into  a  long  and  detailed  ac 
count  of  his  first  acquaintance  with  him,  and  of  its  re 
newal  at  the  Lakes  of  Killarney  after  years  of  separa- 
tion. He  spoke  of  the  sudden  death  of  Hastings'  young 
wife  and  child,  and  of  the  mystery  that  still  shrouded 
their  murder.  Moulton,  in  being  thus  compelled  to 
listen  to  the  recital  of 'his  own  crimes,  suffered  all  the  tor- 
tures of  a  guilty  conscience.  He  would  gladly  have  been 
spared  the  infliction ;  but  there  was  no  way  by  which 
he  could  avoid  it.  "  My  friend,"  continued  Collingwood, 
"  has  written  to  tell  me  that  he  thinks  of  coming  here 
on  a  visit  soon.  You  will  like  him  very  much,  Mow- 
bray.  He  is  just  the  kind  of  man  that  you  would  enjoy 
a  day's  shooting  with,  or  in  fact  spend  the  time  any  way 
with.  I  shall  be  pleased  to  introduce  you  to  him." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Moulton,  "  that  I  shall  be  deprived 
the  pleasure  of  his  acquaintance.  I  came  here  to-day 
to  tell  you  that  I  have  business  that  demands  my  ab- 
sence'for  several  weeks,  perhaps  months." 

"  But  you  can  delay  leaving  until  after  he  comes  ?  " 
said  Collingwood,  inquiringly. 

"  No,  I  am  compelled  to  leave  here  on  Monday  next," 
said  Moulton. 

19 


218  THE  CROOKED   ELM; 

"  I  am  heartily  sorry  that  you  can't  be  here.  Do  you 
go  alone  ?  " 

"  I  shall  take  Flora  with  me." 

This  intelligence  troubled  Harry.  He  even  asked 
Moulton  to  leave  her  at  his  father's  until  his  return; 
but  he  could  not  prevail  upon  him  to  do  so.  The  mo- 
ment that  Moulton  learned  that  Hastings  was  an  old 
friend  of  Collingwood,  he  thought  it  unsafe  for  him 
to  remain  longer  where  he  was.  He  did  not  wish  to 
see  Hastings,  nor  did  he  wish  to  let  any  one,  who  had 
previously  been  acquainted  with  him,  know  where  he 
was.  He  feared  for  Flora's  sake ;  he  was  greatly  alarmed 
for  her  safety ;  and,  without  any  further  thought,  he  de- 
cided at  once  to  remove  to  another  part  of  the  country. 
He  therefore  began  immediately  to  prepare  for  leaving. 

Harry  Collingwood  spent  almost  all  his  time  with 
Flora,  during  the  few  remaining  days  of  her  stay.  He 
thought  that  she  would  soon  return ;  yet  it  gave  him 
trouble  to  part  with  her,  even  for  a  few  weeks. 

It  was  Sunday  evening.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Collingwood, 
together  with  Harry,  were  at  Moulton's.  A  few  other 
of  Moulton's  neighbors  had  also  dropped  in  to  bid  him 
good-by  before  he  should  leave.  The  moon  was  shining 
brightly,  and  Flora  and  Harry  had  gone  out  on  to  the 
piazza.  They  were  seated  together ;  —  Harry's  arm  en- 
circled Flora's  waist,  and  they  were  telling  each  other 
how  much  they  loved. 

u  I  will  write  you  a  letter  every  day  when  I  am  gone," 
said  Flora.  "  I  cannot  write  much,  but  papa  will  help 
me." 

Harry  was  extravagant  in  his  promises  of  fidelity. 
"  Flora,  I  will  think  of  you  all  the  time  that  you  are 
away :  I  will  write  to  you  every  day  —  such,  long  letters ! 
Mother  will  tell  me  how  to  spell  the  hard  words ;  but  I 


OR,    LIFE   BY   THE   WAT-SIDE.  219 

can  spell  most  of  them  myself.  I  will  write  you  a 
sheet  full  every  time.  I  will  come  here  and  attend  to 
your  flowers,  too,  while  you  are  gone." 

The  hour  grew  late.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Collingwood  had 
gone,  leaving  Harry  to  remain  all  night.  Moulton, 
when  they  left,  walked  out  into  the  garden.  He  was 
looking  at  what  he  must  so  soon  leave,  perhaps  for- 
ever;—  he  was  thoughtful  and  melancholy.  For  a 
brief  period  he  had  lived  comparatively  happy ;  but  now 
he  must  go  from  a  place  endeared  to  him  by  many 
associations. 

"  It  is  thus,"  thought  he,  "  that  I  have  been  goaded  on 
by  fortune,  ever  since  my  childhood.  All  my  bright 
hopes  have  been  cut  off,  —  all  my  life  has  been  filled 
with  diappointment  and  bitter  trials!  If  it  were  not 
for  little  Flora,  I  would  welcome  death  as  a  harbinger 
of  mercy." 

As  he  thus  strolled  about  in  the  garden,  weighed 
down  with  his  troubled  thoughts,  he  came  near  to  where 
Flora  and  Harry  were  sitting.  He  walked  cautiously 
up  to  where  he  could  see  them,  as  they  sat  in  each  oth- 
er's embrace.  Curiosity  tempted  him  to  listen  to  what 
they  were  saying.  Harry  had  brought  a  locket  with 
him  containing  his  likeness,  which  he  had  intended  to 
give  Flora  at  parting  with  her ;  but  he  could  not  wait 
until  morning ;  it  burned  in  his"  pocket,  —  he  could  keep 
it  no  longer. 

"  Here,  Flora,"  said  he,  "  I  have  brought  you  my  like- 
ness. ,.  Will  you  wear  it  for  my  sake  always  ?  " 

As  he  said  this,  he  took  from  his  pocket  a  beautifully 
enamelled  gold  locket,  and  placed  it  around  Flora's 
neck.  Moulton  saw  and  heard  all  that  was  taking 
place  between  the  little  lovers.  Flora  held  the  locket  in 
her'  hand  for  some  time,  without  saying  a  word,  and 


220  THE   CROOKED    ELM  ; 

then,  looking  into  his  face  with  her  large  blue  eyes,  she 
said :  — 

"  Yes,  Harry,  I  will  always  wear  it;  and  when  I  am  a 
great  way  off  I  will  look  at  it;  and  think  of  you.  It  is 
so  pretty !  I  will  love  it  very  much ! "  Harry  pressed 
her  to  him  and  kissed  her  for  the  first  time  in  his  life. 
His  heart  overflowed  with  warm,  pure  love.  She  was 
the  brightest  little  angel  that  he  had  ever  seen,  or  ever 
expected  to  see.  They  talked  long  and  lovingly  to- 
gether of  all  their  feelings,  plans,  and  hopes.  Moulton 
listened  to  them,  and  thought  of  the  time  when  he  last 
sat  with  his  beloved  Ida  under  the  grape-vine  bower  in 
her  southern  home.  He  thought  of  their  pledges  of 
lasting  love,  and  he  remembered  how  bitterly  all  his 
hopes  had  been  blasted.  "  How  little,"  said  he  to  him- 
self, "  do  you  know  what  disappointments  await  you. 
You  do  not  dream,  dear  Flora,  that  you  are  leaving  here 
for  ever."  He  regretted  to  take  her  away  from  a  place 
where  she  had  been  so  happy;  and  more  than  all,  he  dis- 
liked separating  her  from  Harry,  whom  he  knew  she 
loved  with  all  the  innocence  of  childhood.  He  took 
pleasure  in  their  attachment;  but  fate,  he  thought,  had 
decreed  that  they  must  part.  He  listened  long  to  their 
conversation.  In  them  he  was  living  over  again  the 
only  happy  period  of  his  life.  The  next  morning  Harry 
and  Flora  walked  for  a  long  time  on  the  piazza,  and 
talked  over  again  their  many  plans.  At  length  Moulton 
came  to  them  and  said :  — 

"  Now,  Flora,  you  must  bid  Harry  good-by."  She 
took  Harry's  hand,  and  turned  her  eyes,  filled  with  tears, 
into  his  manly  face.  Tears  also  came  into  Harry's 
eyes,  and  he  pressed  her  gently  to  him,  and  fondly  kiss- 
ing her,  said :  — 

"Flora,  I  will  never  forget  you.  I  hope  you  will 
soon  come  back." 


OR,   LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  221 

She  turned  away,  and  cried  as  if  her  heart  would 
break.  It  was  a  moment  of  sorrow,  —  of  bitter,  heart- 
felt sorrow  for  them  both.  Moulton  bid  Harry  good- 
by,  and  then  with  Flora  entered  the  stage-coach  that 
awaited  them,  and  set  out  on  his  journey. 

Several  weeks  had  passed  since  they  left,  but  Harry 
Collingwood  had  not  received  a  single  letter  from  Flora. 
He  wondered  why  she  had  not  written  him.  Every 
day  he  went  to  the  post-office  and  inquired  for  a  letter, 
and,  when  the  postmaster  would  tell  him  that  there  was 
none  for  him,  he  would  get  him  to  look  again ;  but  no 
letter  for  Master  Harry  could  be  found.  He  was  begin- 
ning to  think  that  he  would  not  hear  from  her  until  she 
and  Moulton  should  return.  He  continued  to  go  early 
to  the  post-office  every  day,  however,  always  getting 
there  at  least  an  hour  before  the  mail  came  in.  The 
time  had  passed  when  they  were  to  have  been  back ;  but 
they  came  not,  neither  did  any  word  come  to  tell  anx- 
ious Harry  when  to  expect  them.  He  went  to  the 
kitchen  one  day  to  get  comfort  and  consolation  from 
Aunt  Rose. 

"  Aunt  Rose,"  said  Harry,  "  do  letters  ever  go  the 
wrong  way  in  the  post-office  ?  " 

"  Dat  'pends,"  said  Rose,  with  a  very  wise  look, 
"  berry  much  on  succumstances.  For,  de  ye  se,  Massa 
Harry,  if  de  letters  goes  de  wrong  way,  why  den  dey 
don't  go  de  right  way,  you  know." 

"But,  Rose,  do  people  ever  take  letters  out  of  the 
post-om(ft  that  don't  belong  to  them  ?  " 

"  Dat  am  anudder  question  all  togedder.  I  'specs 
dey  does  sometimes." 

"  Do  you  think  any  one  would  take  a  letter  of  mine 
out?" 

"  Dah  you  got  me,  Massa  Harry ;  whedder  folkses 
19* 


222  THE   CROOKED   ELM  J 

would  take  Massa  Harry's  letters  is  more  nor  I 
knows." 

"  Do  you  think  they  would,  Rose  ?  can't  you  tell  me 
what  you  think  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  mighty  hard  work,  Massa  Harry,  for 
any  one  to  take  your  letters;  for  you  is  allers  at  de 
pose-office  de  berry  fuss  one."  Harry  thought  this  a 
very  sage  remark,  and  for  once  he  felt  that  Aunt  Rose 
was  wiser  than  himself. 

"  Rose,  do  you  think  Mr.  Mowbray  will  come  back 
this  week  ?  " 

"  I  can't  jis  say,  Massa  Harry." 

«  What  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  I  spose  he  may,  but  I  can't  'zactly  say.  I's  warrant 
he'll  come  back  agin  when  he's  done  been  gone  long 
'nough  to  'complish  his  business." 

"  Don't  you  wish  he  would  come  back  ?  I  like  Mr. 
Mowbray  very  much."  Rose  was  strongly  tempted  to 
amuse  herself  at  Harry's  expense  again,  but  her  love  for 
him  led  her  to  answer  :  — 

"  Yes,  Massa  Harry,  I  wishes  dey  would  come  back  ; 
I  lubs  'em  berry  much." 

"  I  don't  like  any  of  the  folks  around  here,  as  well  as 
I  like  Mr.  Mowbray.  Do  you,  Rose  ?  " 

"  I  likes  eberybody,  case  it 's  right." 

"  But,  don't  you  like  Mr.  Mowbray  best  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  but  I  does,  jis  a  mite  de  bes.  I  likes 
little  Flora  too,  an  I 's  a  gwine  to  bake  a  cake  for  her, 
when  she  's  done  ben  come  back  agin."  • 

"  Are  you  ?  "  asked  Harry,  eagerly.  "  That  is  very 
good  of  you,  Rose." 

She  had  now  struck  a  vein  that  interested  him,  and 
she  carefully  pursued  it 

"I's  been  thinkin',  dat  when  she  comes  back  agin 


OR,  LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  22o 

I  '11  'wite  her  up  here,  an  we  '11  eat  de  cake  'mong  one 
anudder." 

"  So  we  will,"  said  Harry.  "  That 's  just  like  you, 
Rose,  you  are  always  good." 

"  I  'U  put  all  de  sweet  things  in  it,  an  I  '11  make  it  fus 
trate."  Harry  drew  a  little  closer  to  her,  and  said  :  — 

"  May  be  they  will  come  home  to-night ;  who  knows  ? 
They  may  be  home  now ;  perhaps  they  are ;  do  you 
think  they  are  ?  Let  us  go  and  see,  Rose." 

He  was  impatient  to  have  them  return.  The  picture 
which  Aunt  Rose  had  drawn  of  Flora  there  with  them 
eating  the  nice  cake  was  so  much  in  accordance  with 
Harry's  feelings,  that  he  more  than  ever  longed  for  her 
to  return.  Aunt  Rose  answered  his  last  question  with 
the  wise  look  which  she  still  assumed.  "  Massa  Harry, 
if  we  go,  an  den  dey  am  not  dah,  why,  do  ye  see,  we  '11 
feel  mighty  disappinted.  So  I 's  jis  bin  thinkin'  dat 
we  'd  better  not  go.  I  would  n't  like  to  be  disappinted, 
it  hurts  one's  feelin's  so.  I  nebber  in  my  life  lub'd  a 
little  gal  so  much  as  I  lubs  dat  ar  Flora.  Do  you  know, 
Massa  Harry,  what  I 's  been  thinkin'  ?  " 

«  No ;  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  I 's  been  thinkin',  Massa  Harry,  how  I  'd  like  to  lib 
wid  you  and  Flora  when  you  grows  to  be  big,  and  nuss 
all  your  little  babies."  Harry  looked  at  the  old  negress, 
but  she  was  as  serious  and  sedate  as  the  table  beside 
her.  "I's  gittin'  old,  Massa  Harry,  and  I  allers  hab 
lub'd  you,  and  I  neber  will  lib  so  comfortable  like 
with  anybody  as  I  'd  lib  with  you  and  Flora.  Will  you 
take  Aunt  Rose,  Massa  Harry  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Rose,  we  both  like  you.  You  shall  always 
live  with  us." 

"  Dat  am  jis  like  you.  I  knows  you  will.  I  '11  nuss 
all  de  babies,  an  bake  de  cakes,  an  I  '11  lub  you  bofe 
'zactly  like." 


224  THE   CROOKED   ELM  ; 

Harry's  heart  warmed  towards  his  old  nurse,  and 
when  he  got  up  to  leave  he  walked  up  to  her,  and  put- 
ting his  arm  round  her  neck,  said :  "  You  are  always 
good ;  I  love  you  very  much  —  Flora  and  I  will  take 
you  with  us  ;  we  '11  have  a  better  kitchen  than  this  one 
for  you,  and  you  may  bake  as  many  nice  cakes  for  us 
as  you  like.  I  won't  let  any  one  disturb  you.  Flora 
and  I  will  come  into  the  kitchen  sometimes,  and  help 
you  to  eat  the  nice  things  which  you  wih1  have  laid 
away  in  the  cupboard.  Won't  we  be  happy  when  we 
get  into  our  new  house,  Rose  ?  "  As  Harry  said  this, 
his  love  for  her  was  such  that  he  could  have  kissed  her ; 
but  he  only  hugged  her  woolly  head  up  to  him,  in  token 
of  his  kind  feelings. 

After  this  conversation,  he  frequently  sought  the 
kitchen  for  solace  and  comfort.  Rose  became  his  con- 
fidante. He  told  her  all  his  thoughts,  and  she,  from  real 
love  of  the  boy,  entered  into  all  his  troubles,  and  sym- 
pathized with  him  in  all  his  thoughts.  They  would 
often  sit  together  in  the  kitchen  until  a  late  hour  at 
night,  and  speculate  as  to  where  Flora  was,  and  when 
she  would  return.  But  Flora  came  not,  neither  did  she 
write.  Moulton  had  forbidden  her  writing;  he  feared 
that  it  would  lead  to  his  detection.  Thus  was  all  com- 
munication cut  off  between  them.  Harry  had  written 
numerous  letters  to  Flora,  but  he  knew  not  where  to 
send  them.  His  father  knew  his  anxiety  to  have  Flora 
return,  and  he  resolved  to  send  him  away  to  school ; 
thinking  that  he  would  there  soon  forget  his  childish 
attachment.  He  wondered  why  Moulton  did  not  return, 
and  still  more  why  he  had  not  written. 

An  agent  came  in  the  winter  and  sold  Moulton's 
farm,  together  with  all  his  slaves  and  other  property.  He 
could  give  no  information,  however,  of  Moulton.  He 
said  he  had  been  employed  to  transact  the  business  by  a 


OR,   LIFE   BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  225 

lawyer  in  Cincinnati.  Mr.  Collingwood  began  to  think 
that  Moulton  was  an  impostor;  but  Harry  continued  to 
remember  him  and  Flora  as  he  had  always  known  them. 
Aunt  Rose  was  not  able  to  answer  the  thousand  ques- 
tions that  the  impatient  boy  now  put  to  her;  but  she  was 
sure  of  one  thing,  she  said,  and  that  was,  that  all  would 
come  right  some  time. 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 


WHEN  Moulton  left  his  home  in  Virginia,  he  proceeded 
to  Cincinnati,  where  he  employed  a  lawyer  to  sell  his  farm, 
and  settle  his  business  generally.  He  then  continued  on 
to  Nashville,  Tennessee.  Little  Flora  felt  lonely  and 
unhappy.  The  thought  that  she  could  not  write  to  or 
hear  from  Harry,  saddened  her  tender  heart. 

"  Papa,"  said  she  one  day,  soon  after  they  had  arrived 
in  Nashville,  "  why  won't  you  let  me  write  to  Harry  ?  " 

"  Because,  Flora,"  said  Moulton,  "  it  would  be  dan- 
gerous for  you  to  do  so.     I  will  tell  you  some  time  why. 
It  is  for  your  good  that  I  do  not  wish  you  to  write  to  • 
him." 

"  But,  papa,  won't  you  write  and  tell  them  where  we 
are  ?  Harry  will  wonder  why  I  don't  send  him  a  letter. 
I  told  him  I  would." 

"  I  do  not  wish  them  to  know  where  we  are.  Your  life 
is  in  danger,  perhaps  mine  also ;  and  it  was  for  this  that  I 
left  a  place  where  we  were  both  so  happy."  She  could 
not  understand  how  her  life  was  endangered ;  and  the 
thought  that  she  had  left,  perhaps  for  ever,  the  generous 
and  noble  Harry,  made  her  young  heart  sorrowful. 
Often  would  she,  when  alone,  take  the  locket  which  he 
had  given  her  from  her  bosom,  "and  look  at  his  likeness. 
She  would  kiss  it,  weep  over  it,  and  say  to  herself: 
"  Dear  Harry,  I  will  always  wear  this  for  thy  sake." 

(226) 


OR,    LIFE   BY   THE    WAY-SIDE.  227 

Moulton  took  a  beautiful  little  house  in  the  city,  and 
in  every  way  possible  tried  to  make  Flora  happy  and 
content.  When  the  weather  was  warm  he  drove  out  with 
her,  and  amused  and  entertained  her  by  pointing  out  dif- 
ferent places  of  interest.  They  frequently  drove  as  far 
as  the  Hermitage,  and  he  took  pleasure  in  telling  her  all 
about  the  hero  of  the  battle  of  New  Orleans.  One  day, 
about  the  middle  of  winter,  they  had  walked  out  to  the 
State  Prison,  and  were  passing  through  it  with  a  conduc- 
tor, when  the  latter  said,  pointing  to  one  of  the  pris- 
oners :  — 

"  There  is  a  man  whose  time  expires  next  week ;  he 
has  been  here  two  years." 

"  What  was  his  offence  ?  "  inquired  Moulton. 

"  Passing  counterfeit  money,"  replied  the  conductor. 

"On  what  bank?" 

«  The  bank  of ." 

At  this  answer  Moulton  turned  suddenly  pale,  and 
looked  attentively  at  the  prisoner  for  some  minutes.  He 
saw  his  pale  face,  his  shaved  head,  all  that  could  degrade 
him  as  a  man. 

"  Has  he  a  family  ?  "  asked  Moulton. 

"  Yes,  a  wife  and  three  children.  They  have  visited 
him  every  week  for  the  last  six  months." 

"Do  they  live  in  this  city  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  You  have  excited  in  me  an  interest  for  them ;  will 
you  please  tell  me  where  I  can  find  them  ?  " 

The  conductor  told  him  where  they  lived,  and  he  and 
Flora  then  left.  Moulton  had  reason  to  believe  that  the 
prisoner  was  his  unknown  accomplice.  He  returned  to 
his  home  that  day,  full  of  melancholy  thought.  "  Go 
where  I  will,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  my  crimes  stare  me 
in  the  face  —  I  am  hunted  up  and  down  in  the  world 
like  a  wild  beast,  Truly  the  way  of  the  transgressor  is 


228  THE   CROOKED   ELM  J 

hard.  I  will  seek  out  this  unhappy  man's  family  and 
give  them  relief  in  their  present  hour  of  trouble."  He 
had  learned  of  the  conductor  that  the  prisoner  was  once 
a  respectable  man,  and  of  a  good  family  ;  also  that  his 
wife  and  children  were  almost  in  a  destitute  condition. 
That  night  he  inclosed  several  hundred  dollars  in  a 
package,  and  in  the  morning  early  he  sought  out  the  pris- 
oner's family.  He  came  to  the  house  where  they  lived, 
and,  on  inquiring  for  Mrs.  T ,  a  woman,  pale,  ema- 
ciated, and  with  a  countenance  full  of  sorrow,  rose  from 
her  seat  in  the  corner,  and  stepped  towards  him.  He 
glanced  hastily  around  the  room,  and  saw  how  destitute 
it  was  of  every  thing  necessary  for  their  comfort.  The 
children,  shivering  and  half  naked,  were  hovering  around 
a  few  coals  of  fire.  He  looked  at  the  mother  a  moment, 
who  stood  in  her  rags  gazing  at  him.  "  This,"  thought 
he,  "  is  the  home  which  I  have  helped  to  make  for  you 
and  your  children."  «  Is  this  the  wife  of  Mr.  T.,"  asked 
he,  "  who  is  now  in  prison  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  she,  as  the  blush  of  shame  rose  to  her 
cheek,  "  I  am  his  wife." 

"  I  have  brought  you  a  package  from  a  friend  —  you 
will  be  kind  enough  to  accept  it,  and  believe  that  what 
it  contains  is  rightly  your  own."  As  he  said  this,  he 
handed  it  to  her,  and,  without  stopping  to  hear  her 
thanks,  turned  and  walked  away. 

He  continued  to  live  at  Nashville  until  the  next  June. 
Flora  had  become  more  reconciled  to  her  separation 
from  Harry,  although  she  still  remembered  him  with  all 
the  love  that  she  had  ever  felt;  but,  like  all  other  chil- 
dren, she  soon  adapted  herself  to  her  situation,  and  was 
comparatively  happy  and  contented. 

In  the  early  part  of  June,  she  and  Moulton  left  Ten- 
nessee. They  went  on  board  a  little  steamer,  running 
from  Nashville  to  the  mouth  of  the  Cumberland  River. 


OE,   LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  229 

Every  thing  was  new  to  Flora.  Her  young  mind  drank 
in  all  the  beauties  of  the  scenery.  The  lofty  mountains 
a  little  below  Nashville  charmed  and  delighted  her. 
She  never  had  seen  any  thing  so  wildly  picturesque 
and  beautiful.  The  tall  trees  standing  high  above  her 
head  —  the  dark  mouths  of  caves  —  the  high  and  pro- 
jecting rocks,  all  lent  a  bewitching  charm  to  her  grati- 
fied vision.  For  hours  would  she  sit  on  deck  beside 
Moulton,  looking  out  on  the  ever  new  and  ever  chang- 
ing prospects.  The  boat  at  length  stopped  at  one  of 
the  numerous  iron  founderies  on  this  river,  and  began  to 
take  in  pig  iron.  Flora  sat  looking  at  the  negroes,  as 
they  carried  the  iron  from  the  foundery  and  threw  it  over 
the  bank,  and  was  much  amused  at  the  manner  in 
which  they  performed  their  labor.  A  dozen  or  more 
would  march  in  single  file  to  the  large  pile  of  iron,  and, 
each  shouldering  a  pig,  would  then  march  in  the  same 
manner  to  the  bank  and  throw  it  down  to  the  hands 
who  were  loading  it  into  the  steamer.  What  amused 
her  most  was  the  singing  which  they  kept  up  while 
they  were  at  work.  One  of  the  company,  a  kind  of  im- 
provvisatore,  would  sing  one  line  of  a  rhyme  by  himself, 
and  then  the  others  would  join  in  a  chorus.  Thus  as 
they  marched,  each  with  a  pig  of  iron  on  his  shoulder, 
he  would  sing  out  at  the  top  of  his  voice  :  — 

"  I  is  a  mighty  stout  man ; " 

and  then  the  others  would  join  in  the  chorus  — 
He  ho,  he  ho,  he  ho! 

And  can  carry  as  much  as  any  nigger  can ; 

,  He  ho,  he  ho,  he  ho ! 

De  iron  am  hebby,  but  I  is  hebbier, 
He  ho,  he  ho,  he  ho  ! 

Sally  am  lubly,  but  Dinah  am  lublier, 
•  He  ho,  he  ho,  he  ho ! 

20 


230  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

Thus  would  they  sing  for  hours,  much  to  the  amuse- 
ment of  Flora,  who  never  had  seen  any  thing  of  the 
kind  before. 

Moulton  returned  to  Cincinnati,  settled  his  business 
with  his  lawyer,  and  then  proceeded  on  north.  He  had 
resolved  to  settle  in  Canada.  He  went  first  to  Niagara 
Falls,  and  showed  Flora  ah1  its  wonders  and  attractions. 
They  went  under  the  great  sheet  of  water  on  the 
Canada  side  —  rode  on  the  "  Maid  of  the  Mist,"  — 
crossed  the  river  in  the  little  skiff  below  the  boiling  and 
foaming  flood,  and  visited  Goat  Island.  Moulton  was 
careful  to  relate  all  the  accidents  and  incidents  that  he 
remembered  to  have  taken  place  there.  He  told  her  of 
young  Addison,  the  son  of  the  owner  of  the  little  steamer 
on  which  they  had  rode  close  up  under  the  FaUs. 

"  Young  Addison,"  said  Moulton,  "  was  an  only  son. 
He  was  a  generous  and  high-minded  youth.  He,  in 
company  with  some  young  ladies  from  Buffalo,  had 
come  here  to  spend  the  day  pleasantly.  Among  the 
party  was  a  little  girl  about  your  age.  They  were  on 
Goat  Island,  not  far  from  where  we  are  now  standing. 
They  stood  on  the  bank  of  that  little  stream  of  water, 
which  you  see  is  cut  off  from  the  main  current  by  that 
small  island.  Addison  was  standing  behind  the  little 
girl,  and  thinking  to  startle,  he  seized  hold  of  her,  when 
she  sprang,  frightened,  into  the  water.  He  sprang  after, 
and  caught  hold  of  her ;  but  the  water  was  so  swift  that 
both  were  carried  over  the  Falls." 

Flora  listened  to  the  story  with  breathless  interest 
until  he  had  finished,  when  she  asked  :  — 

"  Did  they  love  each  other,  papa  ?  " 

«  I  don't  know.     Why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"  Oh,  if  they  loved  each  other,  may  be  they  died  happy." 
She  thought  of  Harry  when  she  heard  the  sfbry,  and 


OR,   LIFE    BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  231 

felt  that  had  they  only  loved  as  she  and  Harry  loved, 
that  they  could  even  go  happily  together  over  the  Falls. 
Moulton  left,  after  spending  a  few  days  there,  and  pro- 
ceeded on  to  Quebec,  where  he  rented  a  house,  and  em- 
ployed a  governess  for  little  Flora. 

I  will  leave  them  now  in  a  pleasant  part  of  this 
walled-in  city, —  Moulton  to  look  after  and  take  care  of 
his  adopted  child,  and  Flora  to  commence  learning 
those  things  which_were  requisite  and  necessary  for  her 
to  know,  —  while  I  return  again  to  Harry,  the  disconso- 
late. 

Winter,  long  and  frosty  winter,  had  passed.  Spring 
had  come  and  gone ;  but  Harry  Collingwood  had  not 
heard  a  syllable  of  little  Flora.  He  was  sitting  in  the 
kitchen  one  night,  in  the  early  part  of  June,  with  Aunt 
Rose.  Ever  since  Flora  had  gone,  he  had  found  great 
comfort  in  talking  to  Aunt  Rose,  and  in  consequence 
she  seldom  spent  an  evening  alone.  Harry  was  sitting 
thoughtfully  on  an  old  chair  near  where  Rose  was  at 
work. 

"  Aunt  Rose,"  said  he,  at  last,  «  father  says  I  must  go 
to  school.  He  and  mother  are  going  with  me  next 
week.  I  know  I  shall  hate  school,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Massa  Harry,  larnin'  is  a  mighty  good  thing,  is 
larnin'." 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  go,  —  I  don't  wish  to  leave  you, 
Rose." 

"  I  knows  it 's  mighty  tryin'  to  your  feelin's,  Massa 
Harry,  but  Massa  knows  what 's  de  bes'  for  you." 

"  But,  Rose,  may  be  Flora  will  come  back,  or  write  to 
me  while  I  am  away." 

"  Spose  she  do  write,  I 's  sure  to  send  you  her  let- 
ters." 

"  But  you  can't  write,  Rose ;  how  will  you  send  her 
letters  ?  " 


232  THE  CROOKED   ELM; 

"  You  see,  Massa  Harry,  de  writin'  will  be  on  de  let- 
ter when  I  gits  it,  or  how  could  it  come  to  you  ?  Well, 
I  '11  jis  put  it  in  de  office  agin  wid  your  name  on  it,  jis 
as  little  Flora  writed  it  herself." 

"  But  it  won't  come  to  me,  if  you  do  put  it  in  the 
office." 

"  What 's  dat  you  say,  Massa  Harry  ?  Not  come  to 
you?" 

"  No,  Rose ;  my  post-office  address  would  have  to  be 
written  on  it." 

"  Oh,  yes !  1  sees ;  de  'dress  would  hab  to  be  put  on, 
—  pose-office  'dress.  Yes,  I  sees  now ;  de  'dress.  How 
do  dey  put  on  de  'dress,  Massa  Harry  ?  may  be  I  could 
pat  on  de  'dress." 

"  I  mean  that  the  name  of  the  post-office  where  I  am 
going  would  have  to  be  written  on  the  back  of  the 
letter." 

"  Oh,  dat  am  what  you  means." 

"  How  could  you  send  it,  Rose  ?  " 

«  Could  n't  I  get  Missis  to  'dress  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  mother  would  n't  send  it ;  she  don't  care  any 
thing  about  Flora." 

"  De  more  am  de  pity  —  de  little  angel ! " 

"  If  she  sends  me  a  letter,  I  '11  never  get  it,  I  know," 
said  Harry,  despondingly. 

"  If  de  letter  comes,  I'll  get  Missis  to  'dress  it.  I'll 
talk  to  Missis  about  Massa  Harry,  'till  she  gets  to 
feelin'  soft  like,  and  den  I'll  jis  speak  'bout  de  'dressip' 
ob  de  letter." 

"  Will  you,  Rose  ?  Don't  let  her  put  you  off  by  say- 
ing pshaw !  and  fudge !  and  the  like  of  that.  Stick  to 
her  until  she  consents." 

"  Oh,  I 's  get  her  to  'sent ;  nebber  fear  Aunt  Rose." 

The  time  soon  came,  when  he  must  leave  home.  The 
night  before  going,  he  talked  long  and  lovingly  to  old 


OR,   LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  233 

Rose.  She  had  baked  for  him  a  great  many  cakes,  and 
had  prepared  a  variety  of  things  for  him  when  he 
should  leave. 

"  Rose,"  said  he,  "  I  hate  school,  —  I  know  I  sha'n't 
learn  any  thing.  I  wish  father  would  let  me  stay  at 
home." 

"  But,  Massa  Harry,  you 's  a  growin'  up ;  one  of  dese 
days  you  '11  be  a  big  man,  and  you 's  a  gwine  to  marry 
little  Flora.  Den  you  '11  want  to  hab  larnin'." 

"  But  why  can't  I  learn  at  home  ?  " 

"  May  be,  Massa  Harry,"  said  Rose,  with  a  very  wise 
look,  "  you  '11  fine  Flora  where  you 's  a  gwine." 

"  I  wonder  if  I  won't ! "  said  Harry,  eagerly.  "  Per- 
haps I  may  see  her  somewhere !  Who  knows  ?  Father 
says  it  is  several  hundred  miles  away ;  I  think  it  more 
than  likely  I  will  meet  her ;  I  wonder  I  never  thought 
of  that  before!" 

Rose  had  ingeniously  turned  the  whole  tenor  of  his 
thoughts.  He  even  longed  for  the  morning  to  come, 
that  he  might  begin  his  journey. 

Rose  was  up  the  next  morning  long  before  the  sun, 
fixing  and  arranging  every  thing  for  her  dear  Massa 
Harry.  She  packed  away  more  good  things  than'  he 
could  ever  eat.  Nothing  that  she  could  do  to  add  to 
his  comfort  did  she  leave  undone.  She  moved  about 
with  a  serious  and  sorrowful  face,  and  occasionally  she 
wiped  away  the  falling  tears  with  her  rough  hand. 
Harry,  too,  was  up  early,  and  he  spent  ah1  the  time  he 
could  with  Rose. 

"  When  I  am  gone,"  said  he,  "  I  will  write  to  you  in 
mother's  letters,  and  I  think  she  will  read  them  to  you." 

"  Do,  Massa  Harry ;  Missis  will  read  de  letters.  I 
will  get  Missis  to  write  a  letter  for  me,  and  'dress  it  to 


you." 


20 


234  THE  CROOKED  ELM; 

"  But  you  cannot  tell  her  all  that  you  will  wish  to  say." 

"  Well,  I  '11  jis  tell  her  all  dat  I  can,  an'  you  know  you 
can  guess  de  res'." 

The  carriage  at  length  drove  up  to  the  door,  and 
Harry  was  told  to  get  ready  to  leave.  Before  he  left 
the  kitchen,  Aunt  Rose  put  her  arms  round  him  and 
hugged  him  up  to  her,  saying,  as  she  did  so :  — 

"  Oh,  Massa  Harry,  Aunt  Rose  will  be  berry  lone- 
some when  you  is  gone." 

Harry  put  his  arms  round  the  neck  of  his  good  and 
kind-hearted  old  nurse,  and  promised  always  to  take 
care  of  her  when  he  grew  to  be  a  man.  He  left  the 
kitchen  in  tears.  The  trunks  were  all  on.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Collingwood  had  seated  themselves  in  the  carriage. 
Harry  lingered  a  little,  Rose  was  by  his  side,  and  before 
he  got  in,  she  gave  him  another  loving  embrace,  and 
slipped  into  his  pocket  a  purse  of  money.  Harry  did 
not  see  her  do  this,  but  Mr.  Collingwood  did,  and  re- 
solved that  Rose's  purse  should  soon  be  replenished. 
The  carriage  at  last  drove  away,  and  Rose  returned  to 
the  kitchen  with  the  big  tears  coursing  down  her  ebony 
face. 

Mr.  Collingwood  first  went  to  New  York,  where  he 
met  his  old  friend  Hastings.  He  stopped  a  week  or  two 
in  the  city,  visiting  various  places  of  note.  Hastings 
was  glad  to  see  them,  and  took  great  pains  to  make 
their  stay  pleasant.  Harry  was  delighted  with  much 
that  he  saw.  Often  would  he  look  at  the  little  girls  as 
he  passed  through  the  more  crowded  streets,  hoping  to 
see  Flora,  but  he  was  always  doomed  to  disappoint- 
ment. He  never  before  had  dreamed  that  a  city  could 
be  so  large.  He  wondered  how  so  many  people  could 
live  in  so  small  a  compass. 

They  at  length  left  the  city  with  all  its  noise,  and 


OR,  LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  235 

dust,  and  confusion,  and  went  to  a  beautiful  little  vil- 
lage in  the  State  of  New  York,  where  Harry  was  left  in 
a  school  where  they  prepared  boys  for  college.  It  was 
about  two  hundred  miles  from  the  city,  and  in  one  of 
the  loveliest  spots  in  the  whole  Empire  State.  It  was 
hard  for  Harry  to  part  with  his  father  and  mother,  but 
he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  do  it.  He  remembered 
the  sage  remark  of  Aunt  Rose  respecting  his  growing 
up  to  be  big,  and  of  his  intention  to  marry  Flora ;  and 
he  thought,  with  her,  that  then  he  should  need  an  edu- 
cation. This  thought  made  him  courageous,  and  he 
even  tried  to  avoid  shedding  a  tear  at  parting ;  but  when 
his  mother  embraced  and  kissed  him,  and  told  him  to 
be  a  good  boy,  and  study  to  be  a  great  man,  the  tears 
came  into  his  eyes,  in  spite  of  all  his  efforts  to  keep 
them  back.  His  father  kissed  him,  and  bade  him  a  fond 
good-by.  They  separated  —  and  Harry  Collingwood 
had  entered  upon  a  new  life  —  he  had  stepped  over  the 
threshold  which  admits  man  to  all  his  greatness  and  to 
all  his  troubles. 

Thus  did  the  two  young  lovers,  in  the  spring-time  of 
life,  begin  to  fit  themselves  for  the  great  drama,  whose 
theatre  is  the  world.  So  do  we  ah1  enter  upon  the  stage 
of  life,  little  knowing  the  parts  we  ourselves  are  to  play. 
As  we  leave,  others  take  our  places  to  reenact  with 
slight  variations  the  same  parts  we  have  personated,  and 
with  only  a  shade  of  difference  in  the  shifting  of  the 
scenes.  Time  and  the  world  move  on,  however,  leav- 
ing ns  to  gape  and  wonder  at  the  parts  we  are  respec- 
tively playing,  and  giving  us  scarcely  an  opportunity  to 
bow  a  respectful  entrance  and  exit,  before  the  final 
drop-scene  falls,  and  Charon  significantly  whispers  in 
our  ears  that  the  play  is  ended,  and  that  his  boat  is 
ready  to  convey  us  over  the  mystic  wave. 


CHAPTER    XIX. 


IT  was  a  stinging,  biting,  frosty  morning.  The  air, 
filled  with  drifting  snow,  whistled  and  howled  around 
the  corners  and  roofs  of  houses.  The  milkman,  as  he 
stood  in  his  cart  waiting  for  Bridget  to  show  herself 
from  the  basement,  beat  his  sides  with  his  mittened 
hands.  Omnibus  drivers,  as  they  whirled  along  over 
the  creaking  snow  and  ice,  were  trying  to  hide  their  ears 
and  faces  beneath  their  overcoat  collars.  Teeth  chat- 
tered, and  blue  noses  predominated.  All  out  of  doors 
was  crisped,  pinched,  and  shivering.  It  was  a  morning 
to  make  poverty  and  the  Five  Points  moan.  William 
Hastings  sat  by  his  cheerful  fire  well  wrapped  up  in  his 
dressing-gown.  Five  weeks  had  passed  since  the  event- 
ful sleigh-ride,  and  he  had  not  yet  been  out  of  the  house. 
To  him  they  were  long  weeks,  filled  with  troubled  and 
torturing  thoughts.  He  was  looking  pale  and  melan- 
choly. He  had  heard  nothing  from  Mrs.  Belmonte 
since  she  had  left  the  city.  Nothing  would  have  afforded 
him  greater  pleasure  than  a  letter  from  her.  He  could 
not  understand  her  seeming  coldness  and  indifference. 

"  Her  letters  were  so  unlike  herself,"  he  would  some- 
times say,  "  that  there  must  be  something  at  the  bottom 
of  them  that  I  am  unable  to  see  —  I  have  offended  her 
in  some  way  without  knowing  it.  I  would  gladly 
write  her,  but  I  will  not  compromise  my  self-pride  by 

(236) 


THE   CROOKED   ELM;  237 

doing  so.  She  has  told  me  that  she  would  not  expect 
to  hear  from  me.  I  will  never  write  her  again,  although 
it  is  impossible  to  cease  loving  her.  As  Hastings,  on 
the  morning  that  I  have  mentioned,  sat  thinking  of 
Mrs.  Belmonte  and  the  letters  which  she  had  written 
him,  a  letter  was  handed  in  to  him,  post-marked  Florida. 
He  opened  it  hastily,  and  read  :  — 

"  FLORIDA,  March  — ,  18 — . 

"  DEAR  HASTINGS,  —  We  have  concluded  to  remain 
here  a  few  months.  When  you  are  able,  I  wish  you 
would  look  a  little  after  my  business.  There  are  several 
notes  of  mine  which  must  be  met  soon.  I  will  forward 
you  drafts  to  take  them  up.  I  hope  you  have  entirely 
recovered  from  your  injuries.  Mrs.  Belmonte  is  not 
very  well,  and  I  have  thought  that  this  climate  might 
be  better  for  her  than  that  of  New  York.  This  explains 
our  remaining  longer  here  than  we  had  at  first  intended. 
I  will  write  you  again  soon.  Why  have  we  not  heard 
from  you  ?  In  great  haste,  I  am,  etc., 

"  Yours  sincerely,  BELMONTE." 

There  was  nothing  in  this  letter  to  comfort  Hastings. 
No  news  of  Mrs.  Belmonte,  save  that  she  was  not  well, 
and  that  she  intended  to  remain  where  she  was  a  few 
months  longer.  "  Why  could  she  not  send  me  a  word 
of  explanation  ?  "  muttered  he.  "  I  have  been  deceived. 
I  have  believed  her  perfect,  and  yet,  without  the  shadow 
of  a  reason,  she  tells  me  that  she  will  not  expect  me  to 
write  her  again.  I  will  never  trust  one  of  her  sex 
again."  As  he  said  this,  he  threw  the  letter  which  he 
had  been  reading  on  to  the  table,  and  walked  into  the 
drawing-room.  "I  believe,"  continued  he,  "that  all 
women  are  deceitful,  hypocritical,  and  unworthy  of  con- 
fidence. Mrs.  Belmonte,  I  will  obey  your  request.  You 


238  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

will  never  have  occasion  to  tell  me  a  second  time,  that 
you  will  not  expect  to  hear  from  me.  No !  I  shall  now 
live  for  myself,  regardless  of  consequences,  and  careless 
of  the  feelings  of  others.  .  Fate,  you  have  long  opposed 
me ;  I  now  bid  you  defiance  ! " 

Soon  after  Hastings  had  left  his  room,  Mrs.  Delacy 
entered  it,  and  seeing  the  open  letter  on  his  table,  she 
did  not  hesitate  to  pick  it  up  and  read  it.  A  satisfied 
smile  rested  on  her  countenance  when  she  finished  it. 
«  Ah ! "  said  she,  « that  letter  operated  capitally !  Mrs. 
Belmonte,  you  must  not  presume  to  come  between  me 
and  my  plans!"  Two  weeks  after  Mrs.  Belmonte  had 
left  the  city,  Mrs.  Delacy,  wishing  to  keep  her  away  as 
long  as  possible,  wrote  her  the  following  forged  let- 
ter:— 

"DEAR  MRS.  BELMONTE,  —  Two  weeks  have  passed 
since  you  left.  I  am  getting  along  swimmingly!  I 
never  can  sufficiently  repay  Miss  Leighton  and  Mrs. 
Delacy  for  their  unremitting  attentions  to  me  during 
my  present  illness.  Miss  Leighton  is  here  almost  con- 
stantly. I  had  once  thought  her  not  possessed  of  those 
traits  of  character  which  make  home  pleasant  I  have 
changed  my  mind ;  she  is  an  angel  in  disguise.  I  write 
you  this  letter  to  tell  you  that  I  think  it  injudicious  and 
dangerous  for  us  to  correspond  with  each  other  in 
future.  I  fear,  from  some  things  which  I  have  heard, 
that  reports  will  get  into  circulation  which  must  of 
necessity  injure  seriously  your  good  name.  There  is 
but  one  way  by  which  such  a  calamity  can  be  avoided. 
If  you  remain  whjsre  you  are  a  few  months,  it  is  possi- 
ble that  the  apprehended  danger  may  be  averted.  It  is 
not  necessary  for  me  to  enter  into  the  details  of  what  is 
here  hinted  at,  for  you  will  readily  understand  to  what 
I  allude.  I  cannot  write  you  again  —  consideration  for 


OE,  LIFE   BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  239 

you  forbids  it ;  neither  can  I  ever  visit  you,  for  the  same 
reason.  I  shall  not  expect  a  letter  from  you  in  future. 
With  feelings  of  the  sincerest  regard, 

I  remain  your  friend, 

WILLIAM  HASTINGS." 

"New  York,  February  — ,  18 — ." 

When  Mrs.  Belmonte  read  this  letter,  she  suffered  all 
the  torture  of  the  rack.  She  was  naturally  sensitive 
respecting  every  thing  touching  her  reputation.  She 
knew  too  well  that  she  had  given  cause  for  suspicion, 
and  that  if  her  indiscretion  were  known,  it  would  be 
construed  into  guilt  and  unworthiness.  But,  more  than 
all  else,  the  cold,  icy  letter  of  Hastings  chilled  her  souL 
That  he  whom  she  had  so  long  loved,  so  idolized,  and 
for  whom  she  was  now  perhaps  about  to  suffer  dis- 
grace, —  that  he  should  write  her  such  a  letter,  sickened 
her  heart,  and  made  her  feel  that  life  was  no  longer 
desirable.  She  besought  Belmonte  to  let  her  remain  in 
Florida  a  few  months  longer,  giving  as  a  reason  her 
delicate  state  of  health.  He  complied  with  her  wishes ; 
and  thus  she  was,  without  dreaming  it,  assisting  Mrs. 
Delacy  in  her  infamous  plots. 

Mrs.  Delacy,  when  she  read  Belmonte's  letter,  exulted 
over  the  success  of  her  plans.  "  Every  thing,"  thought 
she,  "  is  moving  as  smoothly  as  I  could  wish.  I  am 
playing  a  dangerous  game,  but  I  have  nerve  enough  to 
carry  it  through.  I  will  go  on." 

That  morning  Miss  Leighton  and  Kate  Coleman 
called  in  their  carriage  to  visit  Mrs.  Delacy.  When 
they  walked  into  the  drawing-room^  muffled  in  furs,  and 
with  cheeks  red  and  rosy  from  the  cold  without,  they 
met  Hastings.  They  had  not  seen  him  before  for 
several  weeks.  In  his  impatience  he  had  refused  to  see 
all  visitors,  alleging  as  a  reason,  that  his  physician  had 


240  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

forbidden  him  to  see  any  one.  His  physician  had  given 
such  instructions ;  but  not  until  requested  to  do  so  by 
himself.  When  they  entered  the  room  where  he  was 
sitting,  therefore,  they  both  exclaimed,  delightedly:  — 
"  Why,  Mr.  Hastings,  how  do  you  do  ?  I  am  so  glad 
to  see  you  out  again."  They  shook  his  hand  heartily, 
and  were  really  rejoiced  to  see  him. 

"  I  am  sorry,  ladies,"  said  Hastings,  blandly,  "  that  I 
have  been  compelled  to  forego  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
you,  when  you  have  so  kindly  called  to  inquire  after 
me ;  but  that  blockhead  physician  of  mine  would  have 
his  own  way." 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Leighton,  "  since  he  has  got  you 
nearly  well  again,  we  will  forgive  him  for  past  griev- 
ances." 

Hastings,  in  his  despair,  entered  heartily  into  conver- 
sation with  them,  and  made  himself  so  agreeable  that 
they  never  for  a  moment  suspected  the  real  cause  of 
their  being  so  long  deprived  of  his,  to  them,  pleasant 
society.  Miss  Delacy  soon  came  into  the  room  where 
they  were,  and  a  cheerful,  lively,  and  general  conversa- 
tion ensued. 

"  I  think,"  said  Kate  Coleman,  "  that  we  ought  to 
have  a  small  Fourth  of  July  to  celebrate  Mr.  Hastings' 
convalescence." 

"  I  think,"  said  Miss  Delacy,  "  that  we  ought  rather 
to  scold  him  for  not  showing  himself  to  his  friends 
sooner.  If  he  looked  a  little  less  pale,  I  would  be  half 
inclined  to  relieve  my  mind  at  once.  I  will  pay  him  off, 
though,  depend  upon  it," 

"  We  will  pardon  him  now,"  joined  in  Miss  Leighton, 
"  provided  he  promises  better  things  in  future  ! " 

"  I  am  in  the  hands  of  my  friends,"  replied  Hastings, 
laughing,  "  and,  like  a  politician  before  election  day,  I 
eave  them  to  dispose  of  me  as  suits  themselves.  I  am 


OE,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  241 

half  inclined,  however,  to  the  opinion  of  Miss  Coleman. 
A  few  lire-crackers  would  n't  be  amiss  just  now."  As 
he  said  this,  he  wrapped  himself  a  little  closer  in  his 
dressing-gown ;  and  Miss  Delacy,  readily  interpreting 
him,  rung  the  bell,  and  ordered  some  more  coal  to  be 
brought.  Miss  Leighton  and  Miss  Coleman  were  easily 
persuaded  to  dismiss  their  carriage,  and  spend  the  day 
there. 

Kate  Coleman  was  about  eighteen  years  old,  spright- 
ly, gay,  and  yet  withal  a  little  timid  and  diffident.  She 
was  full  of  life  and  animal  spirits,  liked  genuine  fun,  but, 
unless  with  those  with  whom  she  was  well  acquainted, 
was  reserved  and  retiring.  Her  figure  was  beautiful,  her 
features  were  good,  and  would  be  by  some  thought  hand- 
some. Her  hair  was  rather  light,  perhaps,  but  it  shaded  a 
face  so  clear  and  white,  that  it  did  not  look  unbecoming. 
Her  eyes  were  large,  full,  and  of  a  dark  blue ;  and  were 
so  soft  and  mellow  in  their  expression,  that  the  twinkle 
of  mirthfulness  which  occasionally  gleamed  from  them 
was  scarcely  perceptible.  She  was  both  gay  and  diffi- 
dent —  sprightly,  and  yet  sedate.  She  was  one  to  melt 
the  heart  into  tenderness  with  a  look,  a  sigh,  or  a  sooth- 
ing word.  She  was  artless  and  innocent ;  and  never,  in 
her  li veliest  moods  of  mirth  and  humor,  would  she  in- 
jure the  feelings  of  friend  or  foe.  When  with  Mr.  Hast- 
ings, Miss  Leighton,  and  Miss  Delacy,  she  was  as  lively 
and  talkative  as  either  of  them ;  but  had  she  been  in 
the  room  alone  with  him  she  would  have  been  too  re- 
sen'  ed,,  perhaps.  She  was  one  to  make  a  confidante  of— 
one  to  love.  She  never  had  looked  better  in  her  life 
than  on  the  morning  that  I  have  mentioned ;  at  least, 
Hastings  thought  so.  He  was  almost  charmed  with  her, 
as  she  joined  in  the  merriments  of  the  occasion. 

"  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Hastings,"  said  she,  "  that  we 
21 


242  THE    CROOKED    ELM  J 

are  going  to  take  you  out  sleigh-riding  again,  to  get 
the  fresh  air?  It  is  surprising  how  it  improves  one's 
health ! " 

"  It  effected  a  very  decided  change  in  mine!"  said  he. 

"  Kate,"  said  Miss  Leighton,  reprovingly,  "  how  heart 
less  you  are  to  speak  so  lightly  of  the  unfortunate 
ride ! " 

"  1  am  taking  satisfaction  now,  for  the  way  in  which 
he  has  treated  us  for  the  past  few  weeks.  It  is  the  only 
way  one  can  get  redress  for  one's  grievances." 

"  I  am  of  your  opinion,  Kate,"  said  Miss  Delacy,  "  but 
we  are  three  to  one ;  besides,  he  don't  look  more  than 
half  himself ;  so,  for  the  present,  we  will  let  him  off  more 
lightly  than  he  deserves." 

"  If  I  were  condemned  to  be  punished,"  said  Hasiv 
ings,  "  I  don't  know  who  I  should  choose  in  preference 
to  you,  Miss  Coleman,  to  inflict  it." 

At  this  sally,  Kate  blushed  to  the  eyes,  and  replied :  — 

"  I  think  you  would  have  cause  to  rue  your  choice ; 
for  I  am  sure  I  should  be  severe  with  one  so  guilty  as 
you." 

Kate  Coleman,  as  she  was  always  called  by  her 
friends,  was  not  indifferent  to  Hastings.  She  had 
liked  him  from  the  time  she  first  knew  him,  and 
whenever  he  had  been  very  civil  to  her  she  had  felt 
gratified  and  flattered.  Mrs.  Coleman  liked  him,  and 
frequently  had  shown  him  marked  politeness.  Kate 
had  been  with  Miss  Leighton  a  great  deal,  and,  in  con- 
sequence, had  been  thrown  frequently  into  Hastings' 
company ;  but  he,  blind  to  the  charms  of  every  one  ex- 
cept Mrs.  Belmonte,  had  never  appreciated  Kate's  many 
excellent  traits  of  character.  He  saw  her  now,  blushing 
in  her  beauty,  and  thought  her  lovely  and  fascinating ; 
and  in  his  despair  and  recklessness  of  feeling,  produced 


OB,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  243 

by  what  he  thought  inconstancy  in  one  whom  he  had 
long  loved,  he  made  her  happy,  by  being  particularly 
polite  and  civil  to  her. 

Miss  Leighton  and  she  remained  at  Mrs.  Delacy's 
until  after  tea.  In  the  afternoon,  as  they  were  all  sitting 
in  the  drawing-room,  Hastings  went  to  his  own  room 
and  brought  from  it  two  large  and  elegantly  bound 
books,  containing  steel  engravings  and  sketches  of 
scenery  on  the  Rhine,  in  Italy,  and  on  the  Mediter- 
raneari.  As  he  returned  with  them  he  said  :  — 

"  Miss  Coleman,  I  never  have  had  the  pleasure  of 
showing  you  these  volumes  of  scenery  in  Europe.  The 
others  have  seen  them,  I  believe,  and  I  trust  they  will 
excuse  us  a  few  minutes  while  we  look  over  them." 

Mrs.  Delacy  was  in  the  drawing-room  with  them,  and 
she  felt  a  little  jealous  of  Kate,  at  being  shown  such 
particular  attention  by  Hastings.  Perhaps  Miss  Leigh- 
ton  and  Miss  Delacy  felt  a  little  in  the  same  way,  when« 
they  saw  him  seat  himself  on  the  same  sofa  with  Kate, 
and  commence  showing  her  the  engravings,  and  explain- 
ing such  of  them  as  he  had  seen  in  his  travels.  Kate 
never  before  had  spent  an  hour  so  pleasantly  with  him. 
She  wished,  when  the  two  volumes  were  finished,  that 
there  were  two  more,  even  larger  ones,  to  go  through 
with. 

"  I  am  glad,"  said  Miss  Leighton,  when  the  books 
were  closed,  "  that  your  travels  in  Europe  are  over.  We 
may  now  expect  some  of  your  society." 

"  I  suppose,"  joined  in  Mrs.  Delacy,  "that  Mr.  Hast- 
ings enjoys  the  Rhine  and  sunny  Italy  more  than  he 
does  the  scenery  of  his  own  plain  home." 

"  To  tell  the  truth,  Mrs.  Delacy,"  replied  he,  "  I  must 
confess  a  weakness  by  acknowledging  your  supposition. 
But  I  never  should  enjoy  travelling  alone  in  a  strange 
country.  With  such  company  as  I  have  just  been 


244  THE   CROOKED    ELM: 

roaming  with,  a  lifetime  would  be  too  short  to  enjoy 
all  that  is  to  be  enjoyed  in  so  charming  a  climate  and 
country."  Hastings  again  brought  the  bloom  to  Miss 
Kate's  cheeks,  as  he  thus  complimented  her,  merely  to 
annoy  Mrs.  Delacy. 

"  Another  such  journey  will  make  you  quite  well 
again,"  said  Mrs.  Delacy,  a  little  annoyed  at  what 
Hastings  had  said. 

"  Nothing  can  entirely  cure  him,"  said  Miss  Kate, 
"  unless  it  be  another  sleigh-ride." 

"  Had  you  said  another  sail  up  the  Rhine,  I  would 
have  agreed  with  you,"  answered  he. 

Kate  had  the  misfortune  to  blush  one  of  her  pleasant 
and  satisfied  blushes  again.  Hastings  seemed  deter- 
mined to  make  them  jealous  of  her ;  and  he  succeeded 
to  a  charm.  The  day  had  been  passed  pleasantly  by 
them  all,  and  they  separated  when  night  came,  full  of 
•spirits.  Miss  Leighton  and  Kate  promised  to  call  again, 
and  assist  Hastings  in  his  efforts  to  get  well. 

Hastings,  from  sheer  heartlessness,  was  determined  to 
make  Mrs.  Delacy  jealous  of  the  fair  and  blushing  Miss 
Coleman.  He  was  reckless  and  desperate,  and  regard- 
less of  the  consequences  that  might  result  from  his  atten- 
tions to  her.  He  was  wrong  in  thus  trifling  with  the 
affections  of  Kate,  simply  to  gratify  his  own  caprice; 
but  of  that  I  have  nothing  to  say,  —  I  am  merely  re- 
cording facts.  He  must  bear  the  blame  of  all  the  de- 
fects in  his  character,  and  vindicate  himself  as  becometh 
a  gentleman  and  a  man  of  honor.  Two  or  three  days 
after  the  visit  of  Miss  Leighton  and  Miss  Coleman, 
just  described,  Mrs.  Delacy  called  on  the  former,  and 
invited  her  to  come  and  spend  the  next  day  with  her. 

"  But,"  said  she,  "  come  alone  ;  you  need  not  bring 
Kate  Coleman  with  you  this  time."  This  advice  ac- 
corded with  Miss  Leighton's  feelings  so  perfectly,  that 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  245 

she  did  not  mention  the  subject  of  her  intended  visit  to 
her  friend  Kate.  The  next  day  she  visited  Mrs.  Delacy, 
and  was  pleased  to  find  Hastings  in  one  of  his  most 
amiable  moods.  He  was  in  the  drawing-room  with  her 
nearly  all  day.  He  tried  to  make  Mrs.  Delacy  jealous 
of  her,  and  succeeded  nearly  as  well  as  he  had  done  a 
few  days  previous  in  making  her  jealous  of  Kate  Cole- 
man. 

"  How  soon,"  inquired  Miss  Leighton,  "  will  you  be 
out  again  ?  We  are  losing  the  best,  of  the  opera  sea- 
son." 

"  That  is  rich,  I  declare ! "  said  Hastings.  "  Why, 
you  have  been  to  the  opera  every  second  night  for  the 
last  six  weeks.  Don't  I  hear  of  your  going  with  Mr. 
Dillingscott,  and  with  Mr.  this  one  and  Mr.  that  one  ?  " 

"  Oh !  I  go  occasionally,  of  course.  One  can't  refuse 
always,"  said  Miss  Leighton. 

"  I  don't  know  why  they  should  wish  to  refuse,  when 
such  agreeable  company  applies,"  answered  he. 

"  Agreeable ! "  exclaimed  she,  "  you  know  that  I 
never  could  endure  that  Dillingscott.  Agreeable,  in- 
deed!" 

"Now,  Lib,  I  rather  like  that!  .That  is  decidedly 
cool,  to  say  the  least ! " 

"  You  know  I  can't  endure  him  !  so  where  is  the  use 
of  persecuting  me  by  the  mention  of  his  name ! " 

Miss  Leighton  affected  to  be  a  little  miffed  at  what 
she  called  Hastings'  persecutions ;  but  he  had  pleased 
her  more  by  calling  her  Lib  than  he  had  offended  in 
seeming  to  think  that  she  took  pleasure  in  the  society 
of  Mr.  Dillingscott.  He  had  called  her  Lib,  simply  be- 
cause Mrs.  Delacy  was  in  the  room.  He  seemed  to 
think  that  Mrs.  Delacy  was  at  the  bottom  of  all  his 
troubles.  .  4*1*' 

21* 


246  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

"  You  did  not  answer  me,"  continued  Miss  Leighton. 
u  When  may  we  expect  to  see  you  out  again  ?  " 

"  I  feel  as  though  I  might  venture  abroad  now," 
answered  he.  "  Your  society  has  so  cheered  me  that  I 
could  almost  dance  the  polka,  even  now.  Will  you  try 
one  with  me,  Lib  ? "  As  he  said  this  he  got  up,  and 
without  any  music  amused  them  by  his  awkward  at- 
tempts at  dancing  a  polka  with  Miss  Leighton.  "  I 
declare,"  said  Hastings,  "  I  enjoyed  that  as  much  as  I 
used  to  enjoy  kiss-in-the-ring  when  a  boy." 

Mrs.  Delacy  was  beginning  to  feel  her  old  jealousy  of 
Miss  Leighton  returning.  Hastings  had  made  himself 
particularly  agreeable  to  her  daughter's  former  rival,  she 
thought.  Poor  Mrs.  Delacy  was  beset  with  a  multitude 
of  troubles.  As  soon  as  one  was  removed,  another 
took  its  place.  Miss  Leighton  went  home  that  night 
feeling  almost  as  happy  as  blushing  Kate  had  felt  a  few 
evenings  previous.  Hastings  was  evidently  beside  him- 
self. His  misunderstanding  with  Mrs.  Belmonte  had 
deranged  his  mind,  and,  as  a  kind  of  revenge  for  it  all, 
he  lent  himself  to  getting  up  petty  rivalries  and  jealous- 
ies between  his  admirers,  as  heartily  as  though  they  had 
been  the  cause  of  his  troubles.  He  wag  soon  able  to 
leave  the  house,  and  the  first  visit  he  made  was  to  see 
Kate  Coleman.  It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  ven- 
tured out,  and  Kate  felt  proud  of  the  compliment. 
Hastings  sat  with  her  and  Clemie  for  an  hour  or  two 
in  their  mother's  large  drawing-room.  Kate  tried,  in 
every  way  possible,  to  make  his  call  agreeable.  It  was 
the  first  time  he  had  ever  visited  her  at  her  own  home. 

As  he  was  about  leaving,  he  said  :  "  Miss  Coleman,  I 
think  of  attending  the  opera  on  next  Monday  evening ; 
can  I  have  the  pleasure  of  your  and  Miss  Clemie's  com- 
pany?;> 


OR,   LIFE  BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  247 

"  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  go,"  answered  she,  delight- 
edly. 

"  I  shall  take  no  one  else,"  said  he,  "  unless  you  can 
prevail  on  your  mother  to  accompany  us." 

"  Mother  seldom  attends  such  places  of  amusement," 
said  Kate,  "  but  I  will  tell  her  of  your  polite  invita- 
tion." 

Hastings  saw  that  she  was  pleased  at  the  thought 
of  accompanying  him  to  the  opera.  He  rose  to  go, 
and,  as  he  did  so,  he  said :  "  Miss  Coleman,  I  am  in- 
debted to  you  for  a  very  pleasant  afternoon.  I  accept 
with  pleasure  the  polite  invitation  you  have  given  me 
to  call  whenever  I  can  make  it  pleasant  to  myself.  I 
fear,  though,  that  ypu  will  have  occasion  to  regret  so 
unlimited  an  invitation." 

Kate  could  not  reply  to  him,  save  in  blushes.  He 
stood  by  her  side,  and  looked  into  her  delighted  face. 
It  was  a  moment  of  temptation.  He  took  her  small 
white  hand  in  his,  and  drawing  her  gently  towards  him, 
kissed  her.  She  did  not  refuse  this  unexpected- advance ; 
and  the  only  manifestation,  either  of  pleasure  or  dis- 
pleasure, that  she  evinced,  was,  to  blush  more  deeply 
than  ever.  She  was  unable  to  raise  her  eyes  from  the 
floor.  Never  were  sweeter  lips  kissed,  and  never  were 
they  kissed  more  unexpectedly  or  more  modestly  than 
then.  Hastings  bowed  himself  out,  leaving  Miss  Kate 
in  her  blushes  and  embarrassment. 

Monday  night  came,  and  Hastings  accompanied  Miss 
Kate  and  Clemie  Coleman  to  the  opera.  He  had  now 
shown  so  decided  a  preference  for  Kate,  that  Mrs.  De- 
lacy,  her  daughter,  and  Miss  Leighton,  began  to  feel 
extremely  envious  of  their  fair  rival.  They  felt  decid- 
edly uncomfortable.  Hastings  had  anticipated  this  ;  and 
it  was  for  this  purpose  alone  that  he  had  shown  so  much 
attention  to  Kate.  They  were  up  in  arms  now,  not 


248  THE   CROOKED   ELM  J 

openly,  to  be  sure,  but  secretly,  against  unoffending 
Kate. 

Time  passed  on.  Several  months  had  gone.  Spring, 
in  all  its  loveliness,  had  displaced  gloomy  winter.  The 
weather  was  growing  warm  and  pleasant.  Hastings 
had  continued  to  visit  Miss  Coleman  occasionally  ever 
since  he  had  been  able  to  leave  the  house.  Mrs.  De- 
lacy  was  almost  as  jealous  of  her  as  she  had  been  of 
Mrs.  Belmonte.  She  no  longer  called  to  see  her.  A 
coldness  had  grown  up  between  them,  from  some  remarks 
and  observations  which  Mrs.  Delacy  had  made  one  day  in 
Kate's  presence.  They  no  longer  interchanged  the  civil- 
ities of  friends.  Hastings  had  called  to  see  Miss  Cole- 
man one  beautiful  evening ;  the  inoon  •  was  shining 
brightly,  and  the  weather  was  so  warm  that  the  draw- 
ing-room windows  were  left  open.  Hastings  and  she 
were  seated  in  the  window  together.  The  room  was  so 
light  and  pleasant  that  the  gas  had  not  been  lit.  They 
had  been  sitting  thus  for  some  time,  when  Hastings, 
looking  across  the  avenue,  saw  a  female  walking  slowly 
by.  Her  form  was  bent,  and  she  leaned  upon  a  staff 
as  if  for  support.  He  saw  her  turn  her  head  sev- 
eral times,  and  look  towards  the  window  where  he  was 
seated.  He  took  no  notice  of  it,  however,  nor  did  he 
think  it  any  thing  strange  or  remarkable.  But  when 
he  saw  the  same  woman  soon  afterwards  walking  back, 
and  almost  continually  looking  in  the  direction  where 
he  was,  his  curiosity  was  excited. 

"  Miss  Coleman,"  said  he,  as  the  woman  was  about 
opposite  to  him, "  I  must  bid  you  good  night.  I  have  a 
curiosity  to  know  who  that  woman  is  who  has  been 
walking  up  and  down  the  avenue,  looking  at  us."  He 
took  leave  of  Kate,  and,  crossing  the  street,  followed  the 
mysterious  female.  The  woman  saw  that  she  was 
watched,  and  began  to  manifest  signs  of  uneasiness 


OR,  LIFE   BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  249 

She  crossed  from  one  side  of  the  street  to  the  other ;  but 
Hastings  kept  about  the  same  distance  from  her,  do 
what  she  would.  If  she  quickened  her  pace,  he  quickened 
his ;  if  she  walked  slow,  he  did  the  same.  When  she 
saw  that  there  was  no  getting  rid  of  him,  she  led  him  far 
down  into  the  heart  of  the  city,  and,  as  she  turned  a  cor- 
ner some  distance  in  advance  of  him,  she  jumped  into  a 
carriage  that  stood  there,  and  told  the  driver  to  go  with 
all  speed  to  a  place  which  she  named,  not  many  blocks 
distant  from  Mrs.  Delacy's  house.  Hastings  was  quite 
confident  that  the  woman  whom  he  had  followed  was 
none  other  than  Mrs.  Delacy  herself,  although  on  his  re- 
turn home  he  found  her  seated  in  her  parlor.  The  next 
morning,  at  the  breakfast  table,  he  related  his  adventure 
on  the  night  previous.  Mrs.  Delacy  affected  to  think  it  a 
very  strange  incident.  She  listened  attentively  to  what 
he  said,  but  was  unable  to  conceal  her  feelings  sufficiently 
to  deceive  him.  He  was  convinced  that  she  was  the 
woman  who  had  watched  him  at  Mrs.  Coleman's  win- 
dow. He  began  to  think.  "She  will  stoop  to  any 
thing,"  muttered  he,  "  to  accomplish  her  base  ends."  He 
remembered  some  insinuations  which  she  had  made 
during  the  time  that  he  had  visited  Mrs.  Belmonte.  His 
eyes  began  to  open ;  but,  strange  to  say,  he  never  once 
suspected  her  of  having  been  in  any  way  connected  with 
his  present  misunderstanding  with  Mrs.  Belmonte.  He 
feared  her,  but  his  fears  had  taken  no  definite  shape. 


CHAPTER    XX. 


ONE  pleasant  morning  in  the  latter  part  of  May,  Hast- 
ings was  walking  thoughtfully  down  Fifth  Avenue, 
There  was  a  zephyr-like  softness  pervading  the  atmos- 
phere, which  naturally  awakened  in  him  his  better  feel- 
ings. He  sauntered  about  on  this  palatial  street  for 
some  hours,  swallowed  up  in  his  own  reflections.  He 
was  dissatisfied  with  himself,  and  with  almost  every  one 
whom  he  knew.  "  I  am,"  soliloquized  he,  "  heart-sick 
of  myself  and  of  the  world.  Instead  of  acting  as  be- 
cometh  a  man  of  sense  and  honor,  I  am  engaged  in  get- 
ting up  petty  rivalries  between  those  for  whom  I  care 
nothing.  Care  nothing?  No,  that  is  not  true.  I  do 
care  for  Miss  Coleman.  I  like  her.  She  is  innocent, 
confiding,  and  noble-hearted.  So  much  the  more  am  I 
to  blame  for  trifling  with  her  affections.  I  will  do  so  no 
longer ;  I  will  give  her  to  understand  that  my  feelings 
for  her  are  those  only  of  a  friend.  I  will  leave  off  playing 
the  fool,  and  act  sensibly  in  future.  I  will  turn  my  at- 
tention to  something  which  will  afford  me  a  permanent 
happiness.  I  will  leave  the  gay,  heartless,  treacherous, 
and  hypocritical  world  at  once,  and  for  ever.  I  will  no 
longer  place  confidence  in  woman.  They  are  all  deceit- 
ful and  unworthy.  There  is  Mrs.  Delacy,  all  smoothness 
and  smiles  when  in  my  presence,  but  how  low  will  stye 
stoop  to  accomplish  her  ends !  Cornelia,  too,  whom  I 

(250) 


TEE   CROOKED   ELM.  251 

had  thought  perfect,  and  for  whom  I  could  have  laid  down 
my  life,  she,  even  she  —  "  at  this  point  in  his  thoughts, 
his  attention  was  called  to  a  carriage  which  drove  up  to 
Mr.  Belmonte's  door.  His  curiosity  was  excited,  and 
he  watched  it  attentively.  He  was  several  blocks  off,  but 
he  saw  a  man,  whom  he  took  to  be  Belmonte,  walk  up 
the  steps  and  ring  the  bell.  Bessy  answered  it,  and,  with 
another  servant,  descended  to  the  carriage  and  assisted  in 
carrying  a  lady  into  the  house.  "  It  is  Cornelia !  I  will 
go  at  once  to  her !  "  muttered  Hastings,  excitedly,  as  he 
started  hastily  towards  Belmonte's  house.  His  first  im- 
pulse was  soon  checked,  however,  and  he  stopped,  saying 
to  himself,  "  No !  I  will  not  go.  She  cares  not  to  see  me'. 
She  has  said  as  much  in  her  letters.  I  will  not  sacrifice 
my  self-respect  by  disobeying  her  request.  I  have 
ceased  to  care  for  her.  She  is  not  worthy  of  my  love  ! " 
Notwithstanding  these  were  Hastings'  feelings,  he 
lingered  about  in  sight  of  Belmonte's  house  for  more 
than  an  hour.  Sometimes  he  was  half  inclined  to  go  to 
the  door  and  inquire  after  Mrs.  Belmonte  of  Bessy  ;  at 
others  he  turned,  resolved  to  go  away  and  think  no  more 
about  her ;  but  before  going  many  blocks,  he  would  stop 
and  walk  back  as  near  to  the  house  as  he  dare  venture 
without  fear  of  being  seen.  That  evening,  before  it  was 
scarcely  dark,  he  was  walking  from  one  street  to  another, 
in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  Belmonte's  house.  He 
looked  at  the  windows,  hoping  to  see  who  occupied  the 
lighted  rooms.  He  caught  glimpses  of  persons  moving 
about  in  Mrs.  Belmonte's  room.  His  impatience  to  hear 
from  her,  and  to  know  how  she  was,  made  him  resolve  to 
go  to  the  door  and  ring  the  bell.  Twice  did  he  pass  by, 
however,  before  he  could  make  up  his  mind  to  mount  the 
steps.  At  length  he  walked  hesitatingly  up  to  the  door, 
and  pulled  the  bell.  "  I  will  just  ask  Bessy  how  her 
mistress  is,  and  then  go  away,"  thought  he ;  "I  will  dis- 


252  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

If""  | 

guise  my  voice,  so  that  she  will  not  recognize  me.  Bessy 
soon  opened  the  door,  and  Hastings,  embarrassed  and 
stammering,  tried  to  gather  from  her  some  knowledge 
of  Mrs.  Belmonte.  Bessy  knew  him  at  once,  and  said, 
with  a  solemn  shake  of  her  head :  — 

"  Oh  !  Massa  Hastin's  !  Missis  is  berry  bad !  She 's 
gwine  to  die  !  I  know  she  is ! " 

Hastings  stammered  out  a  few  questions,  when  Bel- 
monte, hearing  his  voice,  came  into  the  hall  where  he 
was. 

"  Why,  Hastings,  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you !  How 
did  you  learn  that  we  had  returned  ?  " 

"I  —  I  —  was  passing,  and  saw  the  house  lighted  up, 
and  thought  that  you  were  here."  By  this  time  they 
were  in  the  parlor. 

"  You  look  pale  and  ill,  Hastings.    Are  you  not  well  ?  " 

"  Not  very  well,"  replied  Hastings.  "  How  is  Mrs. 
Belmonte  ?  " 

"  She  is  very  poorly  indeed.  She  has  been  unwell 
ever  since  we  first  left  here  for  the  South.  Would  you 
like  to  see  her  ?  " 

"  I  fear  from  what  you  tell  me,"  said  Hastings,  "  that 
her  health  is  such  as  not  to  permit  it." 

"  I  will  go  and  let  her  know  that  you  are  here,"  said 
Belmonte,  leaving  the  room.  Hastings'  pride  now  re- 
turned ;  and,  though  he  would  have  given  all  that  he  was 
worth  to  have  been  invited  by  Mrs.  Belmonte  to  come 
and  see  her,  he  could  not  think  of  intruding  himself  on 
her  notice.  He  rose  to  leave  the  house.  "  She  will  re- 
fuse to  see  me,  of  course,"  thought  he;  "  I  will  not  stay  to 
hear  my  sentence  pronounced."  He  was  just  walking 
to  the  parlor  door,  when  Belmonte  returned,  and  said  :— 

"  She  will  see  you  shortly." 

Hastings  could  scarcely  believe  what  he  heard.  He 
tried  to  be  collected  and  natural  while  with  Belmonte, 


OK,   LIFE  BY   THE  WAY-SIDE.  253 

but  he  felt  an  inward  nervousness  that  baffled  all  his 
efforts  to  appear  composed. 

"  I  have  promised  to  call  on  Dr.  C ,"  said  Bel- 

monte.  "  I  shall  not  be  gone  more  than  an  hour.  Do 
not  leave  before  I  come  back,  for  I  wish  to  have  a  talk 
with  you." 

Hastings  promised  that  he  would  remain  until  his  re- 
turn, and  Belmonte  left.  The  thought  of  again  seeing 
Mrs.  Belmonte  unnerved  Hastings,  as  he  sat  alone, 
expecting  every  moment  to  be  summoned  into  her 
presence.  There  are  moments  in  which  we  live  an  age, 
almost,  so  intense  are  the  thoughts  which  crowd  upon 
the  mind.  Hastings  was  not  easily  excited;  he  was 
naturally  cool  and  collected  under  the  severest  trials; 
but  now  his  lip  quivered,  and  his  countenance  beto- 
kened a  mind  stirred  with  strong  emotions.  His  visit 
was  unexpected  to  Mrs.  Belmonte.  She  had  thought 
that  he  would  never  call  upon  her  again.  The  forged 
letter  of  Mrs.  Delacy  led  her  to  think  so.  The  letters 
which  she  had  received  from  Mrs.  Delacy  were  the 
cause  of  her  illness.  She  was  taken  from  her  bed  at 
her  own  request,  and  placed  in  an  easy  chair.  Her 
head  and  shoulders  reclined  upon  satin  pillows,  while 
her  feet  rested  on  a  beautifully  worked  footstool.  The 
whole  appearance  of  the  room  was  that  of  refined  ele- 
gance. She  had  dismissed  her  domestics,  and  sat 
awaiting  Hastings.  A  feverish  flush  had  displaced  for 
the  moment  the  natural  paleness  in  her  cheeks,  while 
her  heaving  bosom  indicated  intense  mental  agitation. 
Bessy  soon  informed  Hastings  that  her  mistress  was 
ready  to  receive  him.  Tremulous,  and  with  a  fluttering 
heart,  he  went  alone  to  her  room.  When  he  had  en- 
tered and  closed  the  door,  he  hesitated  a  moment  — 
their  eyes  met  —  from  hers  beamed  all  the  forgiving, 
22  iii  v 


254  THE  CROOKED   ELM, 

loving  tenderness  which  she  felt.  Their  hearts  spoke 
together  in  that  one  look.  Hastings  hesitated  no  longer, 
but  rushing  forward  and  falling  upon  one  knee  at  her 
feet,  and  clasping  her  right  hand  convulsively  in  both  of 
his,  exclaimed  in  a  voice  of  tenderest  love  :  — 

"  Cornelia ! "  Then,  as  if  suddenly  recollecting  him- 
self, he  said :  "  Pardon  me,  Cornelia !  I  mean  you  no 
disrespect.  I  am  beside  myself  with  joy  at  again  see^ 
ing  you." 

In  a  feeble  and  agitated  voice  she  bade  him  be  seated. 
When  he  had  complied  with  her  wishes,  she  said:  — 

"  William,  I  had  thought  after  the  letter  which  you 
sent  me,  that  you  would  never  call  to  see  me  again." 

"  What !  what  do  you  mean  ?  what  letter  ?  " 

"  I  mean  the  one  which  you  wrote  to  me  while  I  was 
in  Florida." 

"  Cornelia,  I  do  not  understand  you.  I  never  wrote 
you  a  letter  while  you  were  there.  You  told  me  that 
you  would  not  expect  to  hear  from  me." 

« I  told  you  so  ?  Never,  William !  But  I  see  through 
it  all  now;  we  have  been  imposed  upon;  our  letters 
have  been  intercepted.  I  have  thought  so  from  the 
moment  I  first  saw  you  enter  this  room ! " 

"  You  are  too  ill  now,  Cornelia,  to  talk  more  on  this 
subject.  I  will  call  to-morrow  and  see  you.  We  then 
shall  be  better  able  to  fathom  this  mystery,  which  has  so 
long  estranged  us." 

"  I  wish,"  said  Mrs.  Belmonte,  "  to  know  more  of  it 
before  I  sleep.  The  trouble  arising  out  of  those  cold 
letters,  which  I  was  foolish  enough  to  think  you  wrote, 
caused  my  present  illness." 

"  Have  you  the  letter  which  you  received  in  Flor- 
ida?" 

"  Yes.  Will  you  unlock  that  box  on  the  bureau  ? 
You  will  find  the  key  in  the  little  drawer  in  that  cabi- 


OR,   LIFE   BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  255 

net.  I  think  the  letter  is  at  the  bottom  of  a  package  of 
letters  which  you  will  see  there.  Bring  them  all  here." 

Hastings  did  as  directed. 

"That  is  the  letter,"  said  Mrs.  Belmonte,  as  she 
handed  it  to  him.  He  looked  over  its  contents. 

"  I  never  saw  that  base  letter  before,  Cornelia.  Shall 
I  pledge  you  my  honor  that  I  never  penned  it  ?  " 

"  No,  William ;  I  know  that  you  never  wrote  it." 

Hastings  then  looked  over  several  others  which  she 
pointed  out,  and  which  she  said  she  received  before  she 
left  the  city. 

"  They  are  all  forgeries !  base,  villanous  forgeries  !  I 
never  saw  one  of  them  before ! " 

"  I  believe  it,"  said  Mrs.  Belmonte,  in  a  feeble  voice. 
"  You  do  not  know  what  a  weight  has  been  removed 
from  my  mind  by  your  calling  to-night.  I  never  will 
distrust  you  again.  Have  you  the  letters  which  I  sent 
you  while  you  were  ill  ?  " 

"  I  have  them,  but  not  here.  Yes,  they  are  in  my 
inside  pocketbook."  He  soon  produced  them,  and 
Mrs.  Belmonte  said  that  she  never  had  written  any, 
except  the  first  one. 

"  Do  you  suspect  any  one  of  intercepting  our  let- 
ters ?  "  inquired  she. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  "  Now  that  1  look  at  them 
closely,  I  easily  recognize  the  hand  that  penned  them. 
I  need  not  tell  you  whom  I  suspect;  you  already 
know." 

"  I  have  long  feared  her,"  answered  she. 

Hastings  saw  that  Mrs.  Belmonte  was  very  much  ex- 
cited, and  fearing  to  remain  longer,  said :  — 

"  I  must  now  go,  Cornelia,  You  need  rest ;  and, 
pleasant  as  it  would  be  for  me  to  talk  with  you  longer, 
I  must  forego  the  happiness  until  you  are  better." 

"  I  am  so  glad  that  you  called,  Willi am !     Nothing 


256  THE   CKOOKED   ELM; 

will  ever  make  me  doubt  you  again !  I  know  that  you 
love  me,  and  with  that  knowledge  I  am  happy." 

He  rose,  and  walking  up  to  her  side  pressed  her 
hand  in  his,  and  gently  kissing  her,  said :  — 

"  I  hope  you  will  soon  be  well  again.  While  my  life 
lasts,  it  shall  be  devoted  to  your  happiness !  Good-by  ! 
May  God  bless  you,  and  restore  you  speedily  to 
health !  "  As  he  said  this,  he  turned  and  walked  hur- 
riedly from  the  room.  When  he  entered  the  hall,  he 
saw  Bessy  walking  away,  but  thought  nothing  of  it. 
She  had  looked  through  the  keyhole  of  Mrs.  Belmonte's 
door,  and  had  seen  and  heard  much  that  had  been  said 
and  done.  She  was  alarmed.  She  had  heard  them 
speak  of  the  forged  letters,  and,  though  she  did  not 
clearly  understand  what  they  meant,  she  very  naturally 
thought  that  they  referred  to  Mrs.  Delacy.  She  feared 
for  her  own  safety.  Late  that  night  Bessy  stole  from  the 
kitchen  and  hurried  to  Mrs.  Delacy's.  The  latter  had 
retired  for  the  night ;  but  on  learning  who  wished  to  see 
her  she  got  up,  and  throwing  on  a  loose  wrapper  has- 
tily descended  the  stairs  to  where  Bessy  stood  in  the 
hall.  They  walked  into  the  reception-room,  and  locked 
the  door. 

"  What  has  brought  you  here  to  night,  Bessy  ?  " 

«Oh!  We's'sposed!  We's 'sposed!  De letters!  De 
letters!"  exclaimed  the  wench,  with  eyes  protruding 
from  their  dark  sockets. 

"  Whafrdo  you  mean  ?  What  is  the  matter  with  you, 
Bessy  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Delacy,  now  quite  excited  herself. 

"  Missis  has  come  home !  an  we 's  'sposed !  I  peeps 
through  de  keyhole  an'  seed  it  all !  we 's  'sposed ! " 

"  Why  can't  you  tell  what  you  mean,  Bessy  ?  When 
did  your  mistress  come  back  ?  " 

"  Dis  mornin'.  Massa  Hastin's  was  dah  to-night  to 
see  Missis,  an'  I  peeps  through  de  keyhole,  an'  heers 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  257 

him  say,  dat  de  letters  am  all  de  berry  wuss  kine  ob 
forgesies ;  —  an'  he  says,  says  he,  '  Do  you  know  who 
•  wrote  de  letters  ?  an'  Missis  lookin'  mighty  knowin'  says, 
says  she  — '  I  allers  hab  feared  her,  I  hab.' " 

"  What  else  did  you  see  ?  "  nervously  inquired  Mrs. 
Deiacy. 

"  Oh,  I  seed  Massa  Hastin's  run  into  Missis  arms,  an' 
he  'ducted  his  self  jis'  for  all  de  worle  like  de  big  man 
with  de  long  beard  in  de  play.  He  kneels  on  de  floor 
aside  ob  Missis,  an'  says,  says  he,  '  Lor* !  how  I  lubs  you, 
Corneely!  Den  he  puts  bofe  of  his  han's  into  one  ob 
Missises,  an'  he  squeezes  'em,  an'  looks  mighty  lovin'  like." 

"  What  did  your  mistress  say,  Bessy  ?  " 

"  She  was  a  lookin'  as  smilin'  an'  as  pleased  as, " 

"But  what  did  she  say?" 

"  Oh  she  squeezes  Massa  Hastin's  han's,  an'  says,  says 
she,  '  William,  I  is  mighty  glad  ob  de  opportunity  to 
see  you!'  An'  den  dey  bofe  guesses  dat  dey  knows 
who  sends  de  letters.  I  gits  skeered  arter  a  while,  an' 
when  I  sees  Massa  Hastin's  a  kissin'  ob  Missis,  an'  a 
sayin'  good-by,  an'  all  ob  dat  kine  ob  talk,  I  goes  away 
from  de  door.  Dat  is  all  I  know." 

Mrs.  Deiacy  went  to  her  drawer  and  took  from  it  a 
piece  of  gold  and  offered  it  to  Bessy,  but  she  refused  to 
take  it. 

"  I 's  not  gwine  to  'cept  any  more  money.  I 's  not 
gwine  to  come  an'  see  you  agin,  I  knows  dey  wilj 
'sciver  us ;  an'  I  wont  do  wrong  any  more.  If  dey 
wouldn't  'sciver  us,  why  den  do  you  see  'twould  be 
quite  anudder  thing  altogedder.  I  hates  mightily  to  be 
'scivered,  I  does."  Bessy  got  up  to  leave;  determina- 
tion rested  upon  her  countenance.  Mrs.  Deiacy  saw 
there  was  no  use  trying  to  persuade  her  to  act  as  an 
accomplice  longer;  so  she  threatened  her  with  direst 
22* 


258  THE  CROOKED   ELM; 

punishment  if  she  ever  revealed  any  thing  that  had 
taken  place  between  them.  Bessy  made  no  promises, 
but  left  with  eyes  big  with  wonder  and  fear. 

The  intelligence  which  Bessy  had  brought  came  like 
a  clap  of  thunder  to  Mrs.  Delacy's  already  uneasy  and 
guilty  mind.  She  knew  that  her  desperate  game  had 
ended,  and  that  she  was  the  loser.  All  her  hopes  and 
dreams  of  happiness  were  at  one  fell  stroke  prostrated 
in  the  dust.  But  she  did  not  yield  all  yet. 

"  Every  thing,"  muttered  she,  "  is  exposed.  I  will 
now  wage  open  war !  I  will  show  Mrs.  Belmonte  that 
I  have  power  even  yet.  I  have  lost  every  thing.  There 
is  no  more  hope  for  me !  But  revenge  is  sweet,  and  I 
will  have  it.  Mrs.  Delacy  never  played  a  timid  game ; 
and  why  should  she  now,  when  there  is  nothing  more 
to  lose  ?  I  will  rack  her  with  terror !  Her  days  shall  be 
filled  up  with  harrowing  fear,  and  her  nights  with 
visions  of  demons !  I  will  be  her  evil  spirit  to  torment 
her  here  and  hereafter!  I  now  combat  openly;  there 
is  nothing  to  conceal."  Thus,  in  her  despair  and  rage, 
did  she  threaten  the  destruction  of  Mrs.  Belmonte. 
Alternately  did  she  rave  and  weep  as  she  lay  in  her 
bed  that  night.  Sometimes,  as  she  thought  of  giving 
up  him  whom  she  so  wildly  loved,  and  for  whom  she 
had  sacrificed  pride  —  every  thing,  she  wept  the  bitter 
tears  of  disappointed  love.  "  Oh ! "  would  she  exclaim, 
"  had  he  known  how  madly  I  worshipped  him !  Had 
he  known  my  breaking  heart,  he  never  could  have  left 
me  the  hopeless  wreck  that  1  am !  I  would  have  fol- 
lowed him  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  to  have  served  him !  " 
Then,  when  she  thought  of  her  whom  she  supposed  had 
been  the  cause  of  all  her  misery,  her  feelings  were  those 
of  the  tigress  for  its  prey.  They  were  fierce,  bitter, 
deadly  —  such  as  woman  alone  can  feel. 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  259 

Hastings  resolved  to  leave  Mrs.  Delacy's  at  once; 
and  the  next  morning  engaged  apartments  at  a  hotel. 
Mrs.  Delacy  was  not  much  surprised  when  the  express- 
man came  for  his  trunks.  She  asked  no  questions  — 
she  knew  too  well  the  meaning  of  it  all.  Miss  Delacy 
did  not  understand  why  Hastings  was  leaving  so  sud- 
denly. She  asked  her  mother  for  an  explanation,  but 
could  get  none.  She  went  to  her  room,  and  thinking 
of  nothing  better,  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  and  wept. 
During  the  day  she  received  the  following :  — 

"  DEAR  FRIEND  MARY  :  —  For  certain  reasons  I  have 
felt  it  necessary  to  leave  your  mother's,  and  it  is  but  jus- 
tice to  say  that  it  is  for  nothing  that  you  have  said  or 
done.  Your  mother  knows  why  I  have  left,  and  I  leave 
it  to  her  to  explain  to  you  the  reason.  I  remain  your 
very  sincere 'friend  and  wellwisher. 
"  Thursday,  P.  M.  WILLIAM  HASTINGS." 

Miss  Delacy  showed  this  note  to  her  mother,  and 
besought  her  to  explain  why  Hastings  had  left;  but 
Mrs.  Delacy  was,  or  affected  to  be,  indignant  respecting 
its  contents,  and  refused  utterly  to  speak  of  him. 

Hastings  called  frequently  to  see  Mrs.  Belmonte, 
almost  to  the  entire  neglect  of  blushing  Kate  Coleman, 
(a  fact  which  makes  this  honest  pen  of  mine  indignant 
as  I  write).  He  was  better  than  all  Mrs.  Belmonte's 
physicians ;  for  she,  in  a  remarkably  short  time,  entirely 
recovered  her  health. 

He  called  occasionally  to  see  Miss  Coleman.  Kate 
was  not  a  jealous  girl,  and  she,  very  generously  to  be 
sure,  accepted  his  flimsy  excuses  of  "  press  of  business  " 
as  genuine,  and  was,  or  at  least  she  tried  to  be,  satisfied 
with  a  visit  from  him  whenever  he  could  find  leisure  to 
drop  in  and  see  her.  Miss  Leighton  was  beginning  to 


260  THE   CROOKED   ELM  J 

flag  in  the  general  chase,  and  it  is  worthy  of  record  that 
she  now  took  more  kindly  to  Mr.  Dillingseott  than  she 
had  ever  been  known  to  before. 

Mrs.  Delacy,  like  a  general  who  has  been  beaten  but 
not  conquered,  sat  coolly  down,  and  took  a  careful  sur- 
vey of  the  whole  field  of  strife.  She  calculated  all  the 
chances  of  success  and  defeat,  with  more  nerve  than 
she  ever  had  evinced  before.  All  the  letters  which  she 
had  intercepted  while  Hastings  was  ill  had  been  care- 
fully laid  aside.  She  went  and  got  them,  and  read  crit- 
ically their  contents.  "  They  will  be  a  dainty  morsel 
for  that  stupid  owl,  Belmonte,  one  of  these  mornings! 
I  had  rather  see  him  when  he  reads  them,  than  witness 
the  '  Jealous  Husband '  as  played  at  Wallaces  !  "  She 
exulted  over  the  power  which  she  possessed.  She  felt 
that  those  letters  would  ruin  for  ever  the  good  name  of 
Mrs.  Belmonte.  They  were  carefully  sealed  up  and  sent 
to  Belmonte.  He  received  and  read  them.  He  com- 
pared those  signed  by  Hastings  with  some  of  Hastings' 
writing  which  he  had  in  his  office.  "  They  are  genuine, 
come  from  whom  they  may,"  exclaimed  he,  mad  with 
passion.  "  If  I  am  convinced  that  Hastings  has  played 
me  false,  I  will  shoot  him  as  I  would  a  dog !  Garrote 
me,  if  I  dont !  I  will  shoot  them  both  before  night !  I 
have  been  too  confiding !  too  trusting !  in  short  too  much 
of  a  cursed  fool!  I  have  refused  to  open  my  eyes  to 
what  must  have  been  apparent  to  every  one  else !  I 
have  encouraged  his  visits.  I  have  refused  to  listen  to 
the  advice  of  one  who  has  written  me  two  letters  of 
warning.  I  will  now  carry  war,  exterminating  war 
into  the  insidious,  deceitful,  hypocritical,  villainous, 
enemies'  camp !  Blow  me  if  I  don't  shoot  them  both 
before  sundown!"  Thus  did  the  amiable  Belmonte 
talk  himself  into  one  of  the  most  uncomfortable  of 
passions  over  the  unoffending  letters  which  lay  on  the 


OR,  LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  261 

table  before  him.  In  his  rage  he  seized  them  passion- 
ately in  his  hand,  and  throwing  them  on  the  floor 
crushed  them  with  his  heel,  muttering :  "  Thus  will  I 
crush  you,  villain !  *  Had  there  been  a  fire  in  his  office 
he  would  have  burned  them ;  but  as  there  was  none 
he  acted  more  wisely,  by  carefully  gathering  them  from 
the  floor,  and  putting  them  in  his  pocketbook.  He 
then  rushed  from  his  office.  His  first  impulse  was  to 
go  at  once  to  Hastings,  and  inflict  upon  him  summary 
vengeance ;  but  second  thought  induced  him  to  act 
more  diplomatically.  He  remembered,  even  then,  his 
connection  with  Hastings  in  an  affair  that  concerned 
himself  deeply.  He  had  not  forgotten  the  little  girl 
who  had  been  spirited  away  from  his  uncle's.  When 
he  reflected  more  on  the  matter,  he  determined  to  adopt 
a  course  that  would  fully  satisfy  himself  as  to  the  exact 
nature  of  Hastings'  intimacy  with  Mrs.  Belmonte.  He 
resolved  to  take  her  to  the  country,  and  leave  her  there 
with  her  friends  for  a  few  weeks.  "  If,"  said  he  to  him- 
self, «  Hastings  and  she  are  as  intimate  as  these  letters 
indicate,  they  will  correspond  with  each  other  while 
separated;  and  I  will  intercept  the  letters,  or  in  some 
way  manage  to  read  them.  I  will  fathom  the  matter  to 
the  bottom."  This  was  the  plan  that  he  settled  down 
upon  —  a  slow  one  to  be  sure  for  a  jealous  husband,  but 
perhaps  a  wise  one.  Be  this  as  it  may,  this  is  simply 
what  Mr.  Belmonte,  with  all  his  shrewdness,  determined 
to  do.  That  evening,  as  he  and  Mrs.  Belmonte  were 
sitting  together,  he  said :  — 

"  My  dear,  you  have  been  sick  so  long  that  I  think 
the  country  air  would  strengthen  and  invigorate  you. 
How  soon  can  you  get  ready  to  leave  the  city  ?  I  will 
take  you  to  sister's,  and  leave  you  there  for  a  few 
weeks." 

"  I  don't  like  the  country,"  replied  Mrs.  Belmonte.    "  I 


262  THE   CROOKED   ELM  J 

infinitely  prefer  remaining  here.  Besides,  Walter,  I 
think  the  city  agrees  with  m<§.  I  was  sick  all  the  time 
during  my  absence  from  it  As  soon  as  we  returned  I 
grew  better,  and  got  entirely  well.  I  don't  wish  to  go  to 
the  country." 

Belmonte  did  not  like  this  resistance  to  his  wishes, 
and  he  answered  :  — 

"  My  dear,  I  am  compelled  to  leave  again  for  the 
South.  In  my  absence  I  wish  you  to  remain  in  the 
country.  You  will  get  ready,  therefore,  to  leave  here 
by  Wednesday  next." 

"  That  is  too  short  a  time  to  prepare  to  visit  one's 
friends ;  especially  as  you  seem  determined  that  I  shall 
remain  there  a  long  time.  I  always  did  dislike  visiting 
relatives." 

"  Well,  how  long  will  it  require  for  you  to  get  ready 
to  leave  ?  " 

•'  At  least  a  couple  of  weeks.  I  must  have  some 
dresses  made,  and  some  —  " 

u  Never  mind  enumerating  your  wants.  Give  me  a 
list  of  what  you  require,  and  I  think  I  will  have  them 
provided  for  you  by  Wednesday  next." 

"  What  makes  you  in  such  a  hurry  to  get  rid  of 
me?" 

"  Why,  I  must  leave  for  the  South  by  Friday  or 
Saturday,  and  I  wish  to  see  you  safely  away  before 
I  go." 

"  But  you  never  mentioned  this  before  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  he ;  "  it  is  a  sudden  and  unexpected 
necessity  that  takes  me  away." 

"  If  I  must  get  ready  by  that  time,  I  suppose  I  must, 
so  there  is  the  end  of  it ;  but  I  had  much  rather  remain 
here  while  you  are  absent." 

It  was  with  difficulty  that  Belmonte  could  keep  cool 
during  this  pleasant  discussion ;  especially  was  it  so 


OR,  LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  263 

when  Mrs.  Belmonte  expressed  a  wish  to  remain  in  the 
city  during  his  absence.  All  thirtgs  were  prepared  for 
leaving.  Hastings  had  visited  Mrs.  Belmonte  every 
day  since  he  was  told  that  she  was  so  soon  to  leave. 
Belmonte,  however,  remained  in  his  society  when  he 
came,  and  with  a  powerful  effort  succeeded  in  conceal- 
ing his  jealousy  from  him.  Hastings  had  expected  that 
Mrs.  Delacy  would  try  to  break  off  his  Arisits  to  Bel- 
monte's ;  but  he  was  determined  to  meet  boldly  what- 
ever she  should  do  to  effect  such  an  end.  He  would 
have  been  surprised  at  no  time  after  he  left  Mrs.  De- 
lacy's,  had  Belmonte  attacked  him  for  an  improper  inti- 
macy with  Mrs.  Belmonte.  He  expected  something  of 
the  kind  constantly ;  yet  his  love  for  her  led  him  to 
brave  every  danger  that  threatened.  Belmonte  had 
taken  passage  for  himself  and  wife  on  one  of  the  evening 
boats  running  to  Albany.  They  were  to  leave  home  at 
five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 

Hastings  spent  a  long  time  with  Mrs.  Belmonte  in 
the  morning,  and  he  visited  her  again  just  as  they  were 
leaving  the  house.  She  invited  him  to  get  into  the  car- 
riage and  go  to  the  boat  with  them ;  Belmonte,  how- 
ever, did  not  join  in  the  request.  Hastings  declined 
going  by  saying  that  he  had  business  of  importance  that 
prevented  his  accepting  her  invitation.  Mrs.  Belmonte 
was  unable  to  conceal  her  feelings  of  regret  at  parting 
with  Hastings.  Belmonte  watched  her  narrowly,  and 
saw  the  tears  come  into  her  eyes  as  she  extended  her 
hand  to  bid  Hastings  good-by.  When  they  were 
driving  down  to  the  landing,  Belmonte  said :  — 

"  Why  are  you  so  much  agitated  at  parting  with 
Hastings  ?  I  never  knew  you  to  show  so  much  emo- 
tion when  I  have  parted  with  you,  even  for  a  much 
longer  time  than  you  are  now  to  be  absent  from  him  ?  " 

She  could  answer  nothing,  but  that  she  supposed  hex 


264  THE   CROOKED   ELM. 

sickness  had  made  her  nervous.  She  feared  that  she 
had  led  him  to  suspect  the  true  reason  for  her  wishing 
to  remain  in  the  city,  and  she  made  an  effort  to  be 
cheerful ;  but  the  tears  would  make  their  way  into  her 
eyes  through  all  her  smiles,  no  matter  how  hard  she 
tried  to  keep  them  back.  Belmonte  went  with  her  to  a 
beautiful  little  village  in  the  State  of  New  York,  and 
left  her  there.  When  he  bid  her  good-by,  he  said :  — 

"  My  dear,  I  think  that  I  shall  have  to  remain  in  New 
York  a  week  or  two  yet,  before  going  South.  I  will 
write  you  a  line  every  day  until  I  go." 

He  had  been  so  artfully  cool  when  in  her  presence, 
that  she  did  not  dream  that  he  was  weaving  a  web  to 
ensnare  her.  He  kissed  her  as  loving  a  good-by  as  he 
ever  had  done  in  his  life,  and  then  left,  to  find  evidence, 
if  possible,  of  her  inconstancy. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 


ON  his  way  back  to  the  city,  Belmonte  called  on  his 
uncle.  The  old  man  was  glad  to  see  him,  for  he  be- 
lieved his  nephew  to  be  his  best  friend.  After  a  great 
deal  of  persuasion,  Belmonte  consented  to  remain  all 
night  with  him.  They  sat  talking  together  until  a  late 
hour.  The  old  man  spoke  of  Flora  —  her  death,  and  of 
many  incidents  in  her  life.  Belmonte  felt  the  blood 
ran  cold  through  his  veins  as  he  listened,  and  thought 
of  his  own  guilt  in  removing  the  little  girl  from  him. 
The  domestics  had  all  retired ;  —  every  thing  about  was 
as  still  as  the  grave.  The  hour  and  the  place  inspired 
Belmonte  with  fear.  His  guilty  conscience  cowered, 
but  could  find  no  hiding-place.  Little  Flora,  and  the 
dead  body  which  he  had  taken  from  the  river  dressed  in 
her  clothes,  were  continually  present.  At  length  they 
separated  for  the  night.  Belmonte's  bed-room  was  on 
the  second  floor,  and  overlooked  the  Hudson.  The 
night  was  clear,  and  the  moon  shone  brightly.  He 
pulled  the  curtain  aside,  and  seated  himself  by  the  win- 
dow —  he  was  afraid  to  retire.  It  was  midnight,  and 
he  continued  looking  out  on  the  moonlit  spectacle,  tor- 
tured with  his  own  reflections.  It  was  that  solemn  hour, 
when  time  seems  to  hold  familiar  converse  with  eter- 
nity—  when  the  spirits  of  the  dead  are  supposed  to 

23  (266) 


266  THE   CROOKED   ELM) 

break  their  cerements  and  revisit  the  earth  to  remind 
man  of  his  misdeeds,  and  forewarn  him  of  punishments 
in  store.  His  eyes  wandered  unconsciously  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  graves  on  the  little  hillock.  "  Heavens ! " 
gasped  he,  as  he  convulsively  clasped  his  forehead  with 
his  hands,  and  shook  with  terror :  "  What  do  I  see  ?  " 
His  eyes  dilated,  and  cold  perspiration  stood  in  great 
drops  on  his  face  as  he  intently  watched  a  white  figure 
moving  slowly  towards  the  house,  along  the  path  lead- 
ing to  the  graves.  He  looked  wildly  at  it  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, and  then  fell  insensible  from  his  chair.  When 
he  recovered  his  senses  he  got  up,  and,  afraid  to  look 
out  of  the  window  again,  staggered  to  the  bed,  and 
covering  himself  with  the  bed-clothes  lay  trembling  with 
fear  until  morning.  The  white  object  which  he  had 
seen  was  the  house-maid,  who  was  in  the  habit  of 
walking  in  her  sleep.  As  soon  as  day-light  appeared, 
Belmonte  got  out  of  bed,  and,  descending  the  stairs  to  his 
uncle's  room,  took  leave  of  the  old  man,  and  returned 
to  the  city.  No  inducement  would  have  tempted  him 
to  pass  another  night  there.  When  he  was  safely  at 
home,  he  sat  down  and  carefully  surveyed  his  plans  and 
prospects.  "  He,"  meaning  his  uncle,  "  is  looking  better 
than  when  I  left  for  the  South.  He  will  never  die.  I 
am  a  ruined  man,  unless  I  have  a  windfall  from  some 
quarter.  I  will  try  my  scheme  with  that  hypocritical 
villain,  Hastings,  first ;  and  if  I  don't  succeed,  I  will  turn 
that  old  dotard  uncle  of  mine  into  his  grave!"  He 
suddenly  remembered  the  apparition  of  the  night  pre- 
vious, and  for  a  moment  trembled  with  fear..  Daylight, 
however,  had  not  so  many  terrors  to  him  as  midnight ; 
and,  soon  recovering  his  self-possession,  he  added :  — 
"  He  must  die,  if  necessary  for  my  preservation  from 
ruin.  I  am  too  deep  in  crime  to  be  chicken-hearted.  I 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  267 

am  determined  to  save  myself,  even  though  devils  haunt 
me  both  day  and  night !  "  Driven  to  the  verge  of  de- 
spair, he  resolved,  if  possible,  to  defraud  Hastings  out  of 
a  large  sum  of  money  before  breaking  friendship  with 
him ;  but,  failing  in  that,  he  was  determined  to  put 
himself  in  possession  of  his  uncle's  large  property.  With 
his  mind  filled  with  these  dark  purposes,  he  went  to 
Hastings'  office.  He  found  him  sitting  at  his  desk, 
writing. 

"  Ah  !  my  dear  fellow  !  —  busy  as  usual ! "  said  Ed- 
na onte  in  his  blandest  way,  as  he  walked  familiarly  up 
and  shook  hands  with  him.  "  I  have  just  this  moment 

returned  from  the  beautiful  village  of  A ,  where  I 

left  Mrs.  JBelmonte  in  the  arms  of  her  friends.  'Pon  my 
soul !  I  thought  they  would  eat  her  up  when  I  sat  her 
down  among  them.  We  had  not  been  there  an  hour, 
when  more  than  twenty  of  her  friends  came  to  bid  her  a 
hearty  welcome.  Captain  B.  offered  her  the  use  of  his 
carriage  and  horses  as  long  as  she  chose  to  remain.  It 
is  a  delightful  place  !  She  will  live  and  grow  fat  there, 
and  no  mistake !  She  is  rejoiced  to  get  out  of  this 
monotonous  city,  this  mud  and  mortar  Gotham."  All 
this  Belmonte  said  as  gayly  as  possible,  and  without 
giving  Hastings  an  opportunity  of  putting  in  a  word. 

"  I  am  rejoiced,"  said  Hastings,  "  that  her  prospects 
of  enjoying  the  country  are  so  flattering." 

"  Flattering !  Lord !  she  will  be  feasted  to  death  every 
day,  should  she  remain  there  the  entire  year !  Do  you 
know,  Hastings,  that  I  am  compelled  to  leave  on  busi- 
ness for  the  South  in  a  few  days  ?  My  presence  is  re- 
quired to  effect  the  organization  of  the  company  that  I 
am  getting  up  there.  It  will  be  the  best  paying  com- 
pany in  the  whole  South  in  less  than  three  years. .  We 
have  made  extensive  purchases,  and  the  mining  has  been 
most  successfully  commenced.  If  you  wish  to  make 


268  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

an  investment  that  will  double  every  year,  I  will  let  you 
in,  Hastings,  on  the  same  favorable  terms  as  the  original 
stockholders.  I  would  make  no  other  man  living  that 
offer.  If  you  will  take  one  fifth  of  the  whole  stock,  we 
can  manage  the  concern  ourselves.  Such  an  opportu- 
nity does  not  present  itself  every  day." 

"  I  will  investigate  the  matter,  Belmonte,  and  if  I 
think  then  as  favorably  of  it  as  you  do  now,  I  may  ac- 
cept your  proposition." 

"  I  have  with  me,"  said  Belmonte,  "  an  elaborate  geo- 
logical report  of  the  lands  we  have  purchased.  It  may 
be  relied  upon,  for  it  was  made  by  an  able  scientific 
man,  employed  for  the  purpose  by  the  State.  But, 
Hastings,  I  am  in  need  of  present  funds  to  complete  all 
the  purchases  that  it  is  desirable  to  make.  The  fact  of 
the  matter  is,  that  we  wish  to  monopolize  the  whole 
mining  district.  In  order  to  do  this  effectually  we  must 
have  more  land.  I  wish  to  get  ten  thousand  dollars  of 
you." 

Hastings  had  no  faith  in  what  Belmonte  had  told 
him,  nor  had  he  any  desire  to  become  a  stockholder  in 
the  company  that  Belmonte  was  in  some  way  interested 
in  forming.  He  did  not  wish  to  say  so,  however,  so  he 
only  put  the  matter  off,  by  promising  to  investigate  it. 
Belmonte  had  come  to  the  point.  He  had  told  Hast- 
ings what  he  wanted. 

"  Here  is  twenty  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  stockcer- 
tificates  on  the  <  Bauble  Gold  Mining  Company'  in 
Mexico,  now  in  successful  operation,  and  paying  a 
semiannual  dividend  of  twelve  per  cent.  I  will  leave 
these  with  you  as  security  for  ten  thousand  dollars  for 
six  months." 

Hastings  thought  for  a  moment,  and  then  said :  — 

"  I  will  make  you  the  loan,  without  any  other  -security 
than  your  individual  notes."  He  took  his  pen,  as  he 


OK,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAT-SIDE.  269 

said  this,  and  filled  five  notes  for  two  thousand  dollars 
each,  and  handed  them  to  Belmonte  to  sign.  He  then 
drew  checks  for  the  money,  and  placed  them  in  Bel- 
monte's  hands.  This  liberality  astonished  Belmonte. 
He  could  not  understand  what  it  meant.  He  thanked 
Hastings  over  and  over  again,  and  then  left  to  draw  the 
money.  When  he  had  gone  Hastings  muttered  :  —  "I 
will  run  the  risk  of  losing  this  money  for  thy  sake,  Cor- 
nelia. Had  I  not  let  him  have  it,  he  would  have  been 
ruined  —  perhaps  he  would  have  committed  some  des- 
perate act  to  possess  himself  of  the  money  which  he 
now  requires  —  not,  as  he  says,  to  purchase  mining 
lands,  but  to  pay  the  mortgages  that  are  falling  due. 
Twenty  thousand  dollars  of  stock  certificates !  He 
must  think  me  a  fool !  —  As  a  business  transaction,  I 
would  not  loan  him  one  thousand  on  them.  I  will  not 
let  him  think  that  he  can  impose  upon  me  with  his 
worthless  securities.  Twenty  thousand  dollars  indeed  ! 
I  make  the  loan,  Belmonte,  not  to  accommodate  you, 
but  to  save  another  from  disgrace." 

Mrs.  Belmonte  and  Hastings  interchanged  letters 
almost  every  day  while  they  were  separated.  They 
addressed  them  in  fictitious  names,  agreed  upon  before 
Mrs.  Belmonte  left  the  city.  That  the  reader  may 
know  how  she  enjoyed  the  country,  I  here  extract  from 
one  of  her  letters  to  Hastings  :  — 

"  DEAREST  WILLIAM  :  —  I  have  just  read  over  and 
over  again  your  welcome  and  precious  letter.  Your 
letters  afford  me  the  only  enjoyment  that  I  have,  while 
stopping  in  this  stupidly  dull  and  monotonous  village. 
Every  day  I  am  bored  to  death  with  Walter's  country 
cousins,  and  the  over -politeness  of  these  officious  villa- 
gers. I  have  to  sit  in  the  drawing-room  constantly,  and 
23* 


270  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

entertain  a  dozen  or  more  of  them,  whom  I  heartily 
wish  at  their  own  homes.  I  trip  over  to  the  post-office 
early  in  the  morning,  as  soon  as  the  New  York  mail 
comes  in,  and  get  your  dear,  sweet,  loving  letters  my- 
self. I  have  read  those  you  have  sent  me  at  least  a 
hundred  times,  and  have  them  now  lying  hid  next  my 
heart.  Do  continue  to  write  me  every  day.  The  locket 
which  you  gave  me  I  wear  constantly  round  my  neck 
while  here.  It  lies  open  before  me  now,  as  I  write.  I 
am  praying  for  cold  weather,  so  that  I  may  leave  this 
place  and  go  to  the  city,  where  I  can  see  you.  I  am 
sure  I  can  beat  you  playing  chess  when  I  get  back.  I 
am  compelled  to  go  to  evening  parties  to  gratify  "Wal- 
ter's friends.  If  they  knew  how  infinitely  I  disliked 
spending  my  evenings  so,  I  am  sure  they  would  not  take 
so  much  trouble  to  torment  me. 

Write  me  a  good  long  letter  next  time — just  such  as 
you  wrote  me  last.  There  is  no  danger  of  their  being 
intercepted  ;  for  no  one  here  knows,  or  can  know,  what 
name  to  inquire  for,  even  should  they  suspect  me  of 
corresponding  with  you.  Do  write  me  at  least  one  let- 
ter a  day,  for  they  are  my  life  when  absent  from  you. 

My  sheet  is  full.     With  love,  now  and  ever," I 

remain,  Your 

"  Saturday  — .  CORNELIA." 

About  two  weeks  after  Mrs.  Belmonte  had  left  the 
city,  Belmonte  called  on  Hastings,  at  his  office,  to  bid 
him  good-by. 

"  I  am  going  south,  to-morrow,  to  effect  the  pur- 
chases I  spoke  to  you  of.  I  may  be  gone  four  or  five 
weeks.  In  my  absence,  Hastings,  I  wish  you  would 
occasionally  correspond  with  Mrs.  Belmonte,  and  tell 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  271 

her  how  things  move  along  in  the  city.  I  am  sure  she 
will  be  glad  to  hear  from  you." 

"  I  will  do  so  with  pleasure,"  answered  Hastings ; 
not,  however,  without  a  slight  suspicion  that  Belmonte 
meant  more  than  his  words  implied. 

"  I  shall  be  back  here,.  I  think,  in  five  weeks,"  said 
Belmonte,  "  and  then  we  will  talk  more  on  the  subject 
of  your  becoming  a  shareholder.  Good-by,  Hastings! 
I  shall  never  forget  your  kindness  in  lending  me  that 
ten  thousand  dollars.  Don't  let  Kate  Coleman  carry 
you  away  captive  until  I  come  back." 

"  If  she  should  be  so  foolish,"  answered  Hastings, 
"  she  will  soon  rue  her  bargain.  She  will  find  me  '  dam- 
aged goods.' " 

«  Well,  good-by,  Hastings ! " 

"  Good-by,  Belmonte !  I  wish  you  a  safe  and  suc- 
cessful journey." 

They  shook  hands  heartily,  and  separated.  Belmonte 
had  no  thought  of  going  south.  It  was  a  deception 
which  he  practised  upon  Hastings,  and  his  wife,  to  in- 
duce them  to  correspond  freely  if  they  wished  to  do  so. 
When  he  left  New  York,  he  went  to  Philadelphia,  and 
remained  there  one  week,  and  then  proceeded  at  once 
to  the  village  where  he  had  left  Mrs.  Belmonte.  It  was 
late  in  the  evening  when  he  arrived.  Mrs.  Belmonte 
had 'gone  a  few  miles  into  the  country  to  attend  a  party. 
He  went  to  her  room,  and  unlocking  her  trunks, 
searched  them  through  and  through,  but  found  no  let- 
ters. He  next  opened  a  little  rosewood  box,  in  which 
he  recollected  that  she  sometimes  kept  her  letters.  He 
saw  a  package  containing  at  least  a  dozen,  tied  up 
carefully  with  a  piece  of  blue  ribbon.  He  pulled  one 
from  the  package.  It  commenced  :  —  "  MY  DEAREST 
CORNELIA."  It  was  decidedly  a  suspicious  commence- 
ment. He  opened  a  second,  a  third,  and  so  on,  until  he 


272  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

came  to  the  last ;  and,  without  an  exception,  they  were 
all  addressed  to  "  DEAREST  CORNELIA."  He  turned  to 
the  subscription,  and  saw  in  undisguised  letters  the 
name  WILLIAM  HASTINGS.  He  was  in  a  blazing  pas- 
sion ;  yet  he  seated  himself  and  read  them  carefully 
through.  Occasionally,  as  he  looked  through  their  con- 
tents, he  stamped  his  foot,  clenched  his  fists,  and  mut- 
tered suppressed  curses  of  vengeance.  He  seemed  to 
gather  no  consolation  from  the  letters ;  for  the  moment 
that  he  finished  the  last  one  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  and 
exclaimed  in  a  fierce,  determined  voice,  —  "I  will  have 
the  heart's  blood  of  them  both !  —  I  swear  it ! "  He 
rushed  madly  out  of  the  room,  and  after  a  little  delay 
procured  a  carriage  and  started  for  the  place  where  Mrs. 
Belmonte  was  spending  the  evening.  Before  reaching 
there  he  had  time  to  reflect.  His  passions  cooled  a  lit- 
tle, and  he  began  to  "  calculate  "  as  to  what  he  had  bet- 
ter do.  He  was  naturally  a  coward,  and  more  than  all, 
was  excessively  vain.  He  did  not  like  to  have  the  world 
think  that  his  wife  loved  any  one  better  than  himself. 
"  If  I  act  hastily  in  seeking  revenge,  I  will  only  expose 
myself  to  public  ridicule.  No !  I  will  meet  her  as  cor- 
dially as  ever.  I  will  play  a  game  of  my  own,  and 
seek  revenge  in  my  own  way !  "  He  soon  drove  up  to 
a  large  country  residence,  well  lighted  up,  and  alighting, 
rung  the  bell  and  sent  in  his  card.  When  Mrs.  Bel- 
monte heard  her  husband's  name  announced,  an  invol- 
untary shudder  shook  her  frame.  Hastings'  likeness 
was  in  her  bosom,  and  her  dress  was  so  low  that  the 
beautiful  gold  chain  to  which  it  was  attached  could  be 
seen  encircling  her  snowy  white  neck.  She  knew  not 
what  to  do.  There  was  no  time  to  remove  it  Bel- 
monte's  sudden  arrival,  at  a  time  when  she  supposed  him 
a  thousand  miles  away,  was  a  fact  in  itself  sufficient  to 


OE,   LIFE   BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  273 

disconcert  her,  even  had  she  possessed  more  nerve  than 
she  did.  He  entered  the  room  where  she  was,  and  with 
an  effort  embraced  her  as  warmly  as  he  would  have* 
done  had  nothing  occurred  to  disturb  his  equanimity. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Belmonte,  "  I  am  rejoiced  to  see  you 
enjoying  yourself  so  well  here  among  my  old  friends." 

Her  cheeks  were  scarlet,  —  she  knew  not  what  to 
think  or  say.  She  instinctively  feared  that  her  hus- 
band's sudden  arrival  augured  no  good. 

"  Your  cheeks,  Cornelia,  are  as  red  as  roses.  I  hardly 
knew  you  —  the  country  has  improved  your  looks  so 
much." 

She  saw  him  look  at  the  chain  round  her  neck.  His 
countenance  indicated  displeasure,  although  covered 
with  smiles.  She  tried  to  appear  cheerful  during  the 
remainder  of  the  evening,  but  could  not — she  feared 
her  husband.  Belmonte  mingled  with  his  friends,  and 
exerted  himself  successfully  in  trying  to  be  as  gay  as 
the  gayest.  He  danced  and  talked  and  laughed  as 
heartily  as  he  would  have  done  had  he  been  in  the  best 
of  spirits.  The  party  at  length  broke  up,  and  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Belmonte  set  out  to  return  to  the  village.  They 
sat  in  the  carriage  together  in  silence  for  some  time. 
Belmonte  broke  the  ice :  — 

"  My  dear,"  inquired  he,  "  have  you  ever  loved  me  ? " 

The  question^as  so  unexpected,  so  suggestive,  that 
she  could  not  answer  immediately.  When  she  could 
speak,  s*he  said :  — 

"  Why  do  you  ask  me  such  a  question  ?  " 

"  Simply  to  ascertain  the  truth,"  replied  he,  laconi- 
cally. 

"  You  know,"  answered  she,  tremblingly,  "  that  I 
never  have  said  that  I  loved  you ;  I  even  told  you  when 
we  were  married  that  I  did  not,  but  that  I  loved  another, 
and  most  probably  ever  should." 


274  THE   CROOKED   ELM  ; 

"  Do  you  respect  me  ?  "  asked  he,  somewhat  sarcasti- 
cally. 

•  Mrs.  Belmonte's  worst  fears  were  confirmed.  She 
knew  from  his  manner  that  her  intimacy  with  Hastings 
had  brought  her  husband  there.  She  also  knew  that 
appearances  and  facts  were  against  her.  She  at  once 
thought  of  Hastings'  letters,  locked  up  as  she  supposed 
in  her  rosewood  box.  She  remembered  his  likeness, 
then  in  her  bosom.  What  could  she  do !  What  could 
she  say  in  palliation  of  what  she  had  done !  These 
thoughts,  and  such  as  these,  crowded  thick  and  fast  upon 
her  mind.  She  sat  in  silence,  and  without  answering 
Belmonte's  last  question.  He  again  said :  — 
,  "  Do  you,  or  have  you  ever,  respected  me  ?  " 

"  I  know  not  what  to  answer !  You  appear  so  strange 
and  unlike  yourself! " 

"  I  am  very  '  strange  and  unlike  myself,'  am  I  ?  "  said 
Belmonte,  in  a  voice  of  suppressed  anger.  "  You  are 
unable  to  comprehend  me.  Well,  I  will  be  more  plain 
and  explicit.  But,  first  of  all,  I  should  Jike  to  know  how 
you  came  by  that  exceedingly  pretty  chain  that  I  saw 
about  your  neck.  It  is  very  ornamental,  very !  May  I 
have  the  pleasure  of  looking  at  it  when  we  get  home  ?  " 

This  speech  had  the  effect  to  make  Mrs.  Belmonte 
indignant  for  a  moment,  and  she  answered,  in  a  proud 
and  haughty  tone ;  — 

"  I  will  not  show  it  to  you,  nor  to  any  one  else,  who 
cannot  ask  to  see  it  in  a  gentlemanlike  manner!  It 
belongs  to  Mr.  Hastings ;  if  that  is  what  you  wish  to 
know." 

The  fire  flashed  from  her  eyes  as  she  spoke,  but  she 
soon  lost  all  courage,  all  presence  of  mind.  She  felt 
that  she  was  ruined,  and  the  thought  almost  crazed  her 
brain. 

"  The  chain  belongs  to  Mr.  Hastings,  does  it?"  coolly 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  275 

reiterated  he.  "  A  very  pretty  chain,  indeed !  May  I 
ask  if  there  is  any  thing  attached  to  it  ?  " 

Mrs.  Belmonte's  brain  reeled,  and  she  fainted.  He 
saw  the  agitated  state  of  her  rnind ;  and  when  she  had 
recovered  he  spoke  less  harshly  to  her.  He  removed  the 
chain  and  locket  from  her  neck  while  she  was  insensible, 
and  put  them  in  his  pocket. 

There  was  not  much  else  said  by  either,  until  they 
had  arrived  at  the  house  where  Mrs.  Belmonte  was 
stopping.  They  both  repaired  to  her  room  together. 
As  soon  as  a  light  was  struck,  Belmonte  seated  himself, 
and  deliberately  taking  Hastings'  letters  from  his  pocket, 
said,  in  a  tone  of  irony :  — 

"  My  dear,  will  you  sit  down  with  me  and  examine 
these  specimens  of  epistolary  excellence  ?  " 

She  was  overwhelmed  with  what  she  saw,  and  sunk 
to  the  floor  in  a  swoon.  He  picked  her  up,  and  laying 
her  on  the  bed  soon  restored  her  to  consciousness.  He 
had  no  mercy,  however,  and  was  resolved  to  rack  her 
with  terror.  She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  wept 
the  bitter  tears  of  despair.  Her  heart  was  broken. 
She  thought  she  was  ruined  for  ever  in  the  estimation  of 
the  virtuous  ;  and,  though  she  knew  that  the  extent  of 
her  guilt  was  that  of  loving  Hastings  only,  yet  she  well 
understood  the  construction  that  her  husband  and  the 
world"  would  p^'  upon  her  conduct.  She  thought 
that  Belmonte  would  discard  her  for  ever.  In  this  she 
was  mistaken. 

"  You  see,"  said  he,  « that  I  am  at  the  bottom  of 
your  secret.  You  know  that  I  have  lost  all  respect  for 
you  —  that  I  believe  you  guilty  of  that  which  will  for 
ever  make  me  despise  you  !  hate  you !  loathe  you !  But 
I  am  not  willing  to  sacrifice  myself  and  my  chances  of 
a  fortune,  for  any  woman !  much  less  for  one  so  un- 
worthy as  you  have  proved  to  be ! " 


276  THE    CROOKED    ELM; 

"  Sit  down  here  ! "  said  he,  commandingly,  and  in  a 
voice  which  made  the  blood  run  cold  through  her  veins. 
She  was  powerless  to  resist.  She  feared  for  her  life. 
There  was  the  fierceness,  of  a  demon  in  his  countenance. 
She  seated  herself  at  the  table  where  he  pointed.  "  Take 
your  pen,"  continued  he,  "  and  write  what  I  shall  dictate." 

She  did  as  told,  without  seeming  to  know  what  she 
was  doing,  and  penned  to  his  dictation  the  following 
letter,  and  addressed  it  to  William  Hastings  :  — 

" :  You  will  please  return  all  the  letters 

which  you  have  of  mine.  It  is  wrong  for  me  to  cor- 
respond with  you ;  and  I  now  feel  that  I  have  been 
guilty,  very  guilty,  in  ever  permitting  myself  to  be  led 
astray  by  you.  There  are  sacred  duties  which  I  owe  to 
my  husband  —  and,  God  helping  me,  I  will  in  future 
discharge  them  faithfully.  When  I  think  of  my  own 
guilt  —  of  how  we  have  both  deceived  Walter,  I  lose 
all  self-respect,  and  my  esteem  for  you  is  very  much  les- 
sened. I  once  had  thought  myself  and  you  above  such 
deception;  but  like  many  others,  my  eyes  have  been 
blinded,  and  I  have  been  artfully  ensnared.  I  now  see 
and  feel  the  enormity  of  my  guilt,  and  for  the  remain- 
der of  my  life,  I  will  devote  myself  to  my  husband's 
interests  and  welfare,  and  will  try  to  make  amends  for 
my  inconstancy  and  ingratitude,  bji^^ing  a  virtuous 
life.  If  you  have  any  regard  for  me  left,  you  will  do  as 
I  request.  I  shall  be  unhappy  until  the  evidence  of  my 
guilt  is  destroyed.  I  shall  never  write  you  again,  never 
see  you,  neither  will  I  ever  read  another  letter  of  yours. 
Send  me  my  letters,  I  implore,  before  Walter  returns 
from  the  South.  I  fear  and  am  troubled,  until  I  have 
them  in  my  possession.  I  shall  expect  them  immedi- 
ately after  you  shall  have  read  this. 

"  Wednesday, ,  18 — . ." 


OR,   LIFE   BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  277 

Belmonte  posted  this  letter  on  the  next  morning,  and 
also  sent  the  chain  and  locket  which  he  had  taken  from 
his  wife's  neck,  to  Hastings  by  express.  During  the 
day  he  left  Mrs.  Belmonte  alone,  telling  her  that  he  was 
going  a  few  miles  away  from  the  village.  But,  instead 
of  doing  as  he  said,  he  went  to  a  public-house  which 
commanded  a  view  of  the  post-office  and  watched  at- 
tentively to  see  if  Mrs.  Belmonte  would  go  to  it  to  post, 
or  receive  a  letter.  He  had  not  been  there  long  when 
he  saw  her  drop  a  letter  into  the  letter  box  and  hurry 
away.  As  soon  as  she  was  out  of  sight  he  went  and 
inquired  for  a  letter,  which  he  said  his  wife  had  just 
dropped  into  the  letter  box.  "  I  wish  to  take  it  out,  and 
make  some  alterations  and  corrections  before  it  goes," 
said  Belmonte.  The  postmaster,  being  well  acquainted 
with  him,  immediately  handed  him  the  letter,  which  she 
had  written  and  directed  to  Hastings.  He  opened  it, 
and  read :  — 

"  DEAREST  WILLIAM,  —  I  am  delirious  with  fear  and 
excitement !  He  is  here !  He  compelled  me  to  write 
you  a  letter  to-day !  He  came  here  unexpectedly,  and 
has  read  all  your  letters  !  I  am  almost  distracted !  I 
know  not  what  I  am  doing !  If  he  knew  that  I  was 
writing  you  this  letter,  he  would  kill  me ;  I  know  he 
would  !  I  am  r^Jned  for  ever !  Oh,  pity  me,  William  ! 
for  it  has  been  for  you  that  I  have  risked  life,  reputa- 
tion, every  thing !  I  shall  not  dare  to  write  you  again. 
You  must  not  write  me.  He  would  intercept  your  let- 
ters. I  know  not  what  will  become  of  me  !  I  love  you, 
as  I  always  have  and  shall ;  but  in  doing  so  I  make 
myself  wretched  —  miserable  !  Would  that  I  were 
dead !  I  have  no  desire  to  live  longer.  Oh,  pity  and 
forgive  my  weakness  !  I  fear  him,  and  know  not  what 
24 


278  THE   CROOKED  ELMJ 

he  will  do  in  revenge !     I  .am  wild  with  apprehension. 
Do  not  blame  me,  William. 

"  I  am  ever  thine, 

"  CORNELIA." 

This  letter  he  destroyed,  nor  did  he  ever  tell  Mrs. 
Belmonte  that  it  had  been  intercepted.  He  waited 
anxiously  until  the  time  had  passed  when  he  might  rea- 
sonably expect  the  return  of  his  wife's  letters.  He  then 
became  impatient,  and  feared  that  Hastings  would  not 
send  them.  "  If,"  thought  he,  "  the  hypocrite  ascertains 
that  I  am  here,  and  that  I  know  of  his  intimacy  with 
Cornelia,  I  must  then  call  him  to  an  account  for  his  vil- 
lany  ;  but  if  he  does  not  know  this,  I  will  not  make  the 
matter  public.  Revenged  I  will  be,  though  !  and  that, 
too,  in  the  most  effectual  and  deadly  way !  I  cannot 
willingly,  however,  lose  reputation  and  fortune  simply 
to  make  myself  a  cuckold  in  society.  No,  I  will  save 
myself,  but  deal  death-blows  to  them!  Those  letters 
should  have  been  here  ere  this.  I  fear  he  suspects  me 
of  having  a  hand  in  Cornelia's  last  love-letter.  It  cer- 
tainly was  a  very  cool  document,  and,  I  doubt  not,  very 
unlike  those  she  has  previously  sent  him!  Ugh!  I 
could  wring  her  heart's  blood  out,  for  such  detestable 
treachery  and  apostasy !  If  this  matter  is  made  public, 
I  will  then  be  the  devil  that  Ifeell  ^ffhey  shall  both 
suffer  the  tortures  of  the  rack,  if  I  liave  the  power 
thus  to  torment  them !  They  shall  know  that  Walter 
Belmonte  has  the  courage  to  redress  such  damnable 
wrong !  I  will  be 

'  Fierce  as  ten  furies,  terrible  as  hell ! ' " 

Thus  did  he  rave  and  reason  while  impatiently  wait- 
ing to  receive  further  evidence  of  his  wife's  inconstancy. 


OR,  LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  279 

At  one  time,  he  would  be  as  cool  and  politic  as  the  wily 
Robespierre  —  at  another,  as  headstrong,  reckless,  and 
impetuous  as  Benedict  Arnold.  The  letters  at  last 
came,  and  he  opened  and  read  them  all  —  muttering 
death  threats  as  he  did  so.  "  I  will  follow  him  to  the 
ends  of  the  earth,  if  necessary,  to  be  revenged  on  him ! 
Neither  earth  nor  heaven  shall  deprive  me  of  the  satis- 
faction I  seek." 

When  Hastings  read  the  letter  which  Belmonte  had 
compelled  his  wife  to  write,  he  was  naturally  startled^ 
not  so  much  on  his  own  account,  but  he  feared  for 
Mrs.  Belmonte.  He  believed  that  Belmonte  had  gone 
to  where  she  was,  instead  of  going  South.  He  had 
received  the  locket  which  he  had  given  her.  "  She 
would  not  have  sent  it  to  me,  unless  compelled  to  do 
so,"  thought  Hastings.  "  How  should  Belmonte  know 
that  I  have  letters  of  hers,  unless  he  has  read  those 
which  I  have  written  to  her  ?  I  will  return  them,  though, 
because  she  demands  them.  I  cannot  refuse  to  do  as 
she  asks,  although  I  believe  it  would  be  much  better  to 
burn  them.  I  must  obey  her  request,  because  it  is  her 
request.  There  is  no  alternative."  Thus  thought  Hast- 
ings, as  he  sealed  and  directed  the  package  of  letters 
which  Mrs.  Belmonte  had  written  to  him.  "  I  will  go 
and  see  her,  though,"  muttered  he ;  "I  will  know  what 
her  wishes  are  from  her  own  lips.  I  will  encounter  the 
cowardly,  politic  villain,  and  afford  him  an  opportunity 
of  being  revenged !  I  will  see  her,  despite  all  his  efforts 
to  prevent  me !  '  I  have  long  li ved  for  her,  and  her 
alone !  I  have  just  fried  to  save  her  from  the  disgrace 
and  mortification  of  her  worthless  husband's  bank- 
ruptcy !  I  must  and  will  know  her  wishes  from  her 
own  lips !  I  will  give  him  any  satisfaction  which  his 
cowardly  heart  may  demand !  "  Hastings  was  intensely 
excited.  He  believed  that  his  intimacy  with  Mrs.  Bel- 


280  THE   CROOKED   ELM  J 

monte  was  known  to  her  husband.  There  was  no  safe 
way  of  communicating  with  her.  He  resolved,  there- 
fore, to  meet  the  danger  on  the  threshold,  and  take  the 
consequence  of  his  own  indiscretion  and  misdeeds.  In 
accordance  with  this  resolution,  he  set  out  the  very  next 
day  for  the  village  where  Mrs.  Belmonte  was  stopping. 
The  particulars  of  his  adventurous  visit  will  be  the  sub- 
ject of  the  next  chapter. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 


LATE  on  Saturday  night  a  stage-coach  drove  up  to  a 
»  nail  country  inn,  not  far  from  the  village  where  Mrs. 
Belmonte  was  stopping.  William  Hastings,  the  only 
passenger  in  it,  alighted  and  went  into  the  house.  A 
man,  with  nothing  on  save  a  shirt  and  pair  of  panta- 
loons —  the  latter  held  up  by  one  suspender  —  rose 
from  a  rug  on  the  floor  and  lighted  a  tallow  candle. 
The  pale,  flickering  light  disclosed  a  rudely  constructed 
counter,  behind  which  were  two  shelves  filled  with  hah0 
empty  bottles  of  pale  liquor,  dirty  tumblers,  tobacco- 
pipes,  cigar-boxes,  etc.  Hastings  walked  up  to  the 
gaping  and  yawning  man,  who  now  stood  rubbing  his 
eyes  behind  the  counter,  and  said :  — 

"  Can  I  have  lodging  here  until  to-morrow  morn- 
ing?" 

"  Well,  I  reckon  as  how  you  can,"  answered  the  man 
with  the  one  suspender,  in  a  drawling  tone.  "  But  you 
will  have  to  sleep  two  in  a  bed.  Let  me  see,"  added 
he,  yawning  again,  "  there  is  Joe  Sikes ;  you  can  sleep 
with  him  —  the  other  beds  are  full.  Joe  will  let  you 
have  part  of  his'n." 

"  But  can't  you  give  me  a  room  to  myself?  " 

"  I  'm  sorry,  stranger,  but  it  can't  be  helped  —  there  is 
no  room  but  Joe's.  He  is  a  mighty  fine  fellow,  is  Joe, 
24  *  (281) 


282  THE   CKOOKED   ELM  ; 

and  he  won't  mind  it  a  mite.  He  is  monstrous  quiet, 
too." 

"  I  prefer  sleeping  alone.  Can't  I  have  a  bed  here 
on  the  floor  ?  " 

"  There  's  none  for  you,  stranger.  Won't  you  have 
suthen  to  drink  ?  " 

At  this  point  in  their  conversation  the  driver  came  in. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Hastings,  "  have  you  good  brandy  ?  " 

"  The  genuine  stuff,  sir !  None  of  your  tarnal  '  rot- 
gut!"' 

Hastings  invited  them  both  to  drink  —  an  invitation 
which  they  accepted  most  willingly  —  each  emptying 
almost  a  tumbler  full  of  the  pale  liquor.  Hastings  took 
advantage  of  the  occasion,  and  emptied  his  tumbler  on 
the  floor.  In  paying  for  the  drinks,  he  gave  the  man  a 
one  dollar  bill,  and  refused  to  accept  of  any  change. 

"  Is  there  no  way,"  again  asked  he,  "  by  which  I  can 
be  accommodated  with  a  room  to  myself?  " 

Hastings  thought  he  saw  the  driver  and  the  man 
behind  the  bar  exchange  looks  of  intelligence. 

"  If  you  must  have  a  room  all  to  yourself,  I  suppose 
you  must ;  so  there 's  the  end  on 't.  Joe  must  come 
down  and  sleep  in  the  bar." 

Joe  was  soon  brought  down,  but  he  came  muttering 
discontentedly  :  "  He  must  be  mighty  stuck  up  to  want 
a  bed  all  to  hisself —  I  am  just  as  good  as  he  is  —  and 
I  am  satisfied  with  half  a  bed.  These  are  gittin'  to  be 
'tarnal  queer  times,  when  a  poor  man  is  n't  as  good  as  a 
rich  man,  or  when  plain  clothes  is  n't  equal  to  broadcloth. 
I  think  no  man  should  be  above  sleepin'  two  in  a  bed. 
Them 's  my  sentiments."  Hastings  gave  him  a  piece 
of  money,  which  he  readily  accepted,  and  walking  up 
to  the  counter,  took  a  tumbler  half  full  of  liquor  out 
of  it  to  begin  with.  Hastings'  curiosity  was  a  little 
excited  by  the  frequent  looks  of  intelligence  which 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  283 

were  interchanged  between  the  driver  and  the  man  be- 
hind the  bar.  He  saw  them  look  at  his  valise,  but  he 
was  too  tired  and  troubled  to  remain  longer  with  them, 
and,  repairing  to  the  room  which  Joe  had  just  vacated,  he 
spread  the  clothes  over  the  bed,  and  after  locking  the 
door  securely  threw  himself  down  without  undressing. 
He  was  feverish  and  almost  exhausted  from  travel,  and 
lay  uneasy,  tossing  himself  from  side  to  side  on  the  bed, 
and  in  vain  trying  to  close  his  eyes  in  sleep.  Somnus 
refused  to  relieve  him  of  his  troubled  thoughts.  When 
he  left  the  bar-room,  the  man  behind  the  counter  said  to 
the  driver :  — 

"  Mike,  that 's  Mr.  Hastings.  Did  n't  you  see  the  let- 
ter H.  on  his  valise  ?  " 

"  I  seed  it,"  said  Mike.  "  It 's  him,  and  no  mistake. 
He 's  a  'tarnal  fine  fellow,  be  he  who  he  may ;  for  he 
treated  me  afore  I  started,  and  then  agin  when  I  got  here. 
He 's  somebody,  he  is." 

«  Which  of  us,  Mike,  shall  go  and  tell  Mr.  Belmonte  ? 
You  know  we  promised  to  go  and  tell  him  as  soon  as  he 
came.  He's  Belmonte 's  friend." 

«  Won't  it  do  as  well  in  the  mornin'  ?  "  asked  Mike. 
"  I  don't  see  the  use  of  being  in  such  a  tarnation  hurry." 

"  But,  Mike,  you  know  we  promised  to  go  and  tell  him 
as  soon  as  he  came  ?  " 

"  Well,  let 's  toss  cents  to  see  who  shah1  go,"  said  Mike. 
"  I  'm  mighty  sleepy !  I  don't  see  why  Mr.  Belmonte 
should  be  in  such  a  'tarnal  hurry,  —  and  then  he  told  us 
to  say  nothing  about  it.  I  reckon  he  wants  to  give  him  a 
surprise.  He  said,  you  know,  that  he  was  an  old  friend 
of  his'n." 

They  tossed  coppers,  and  Mike  won.  They  drank 
together,  and  the  man  with  the  one  suspender  put  on  his 
hat,  and  started  on  his  errand. 

Belmonte  had  thought  that  Hastings  might  come  on 


284  THE   CROOKED   ELM  J 

to  see  his  wife,  and  he  had  taken  this  precaution  to 
guard  against  any  sudden  surprise. 

When  morning  came,  Hastings  got  up,  and,  washing 
himself  in  a  small  tin  basin  which  stood  on  the  floor,  pro- 
ceeded to  perform  his  toilet,  as  well  as  he  could,  before 
descending  to  the  breakfast  table.  He  could  eat  nothing 
—  appetite  had  fled.  He  inquired  of  the  landlord  the 
way  to  the  village  of . 

"  You  will  follow  the  river  down  on  the  opposite  side," 
said  the  landlord,  "  about  three  miles ;  that  will  bring 
you  there." 

Hastings,  thanking  him,  paid  his  reckoning,  and  set  out 
for  the  village  as  directed. 

It  was  Sabbath  morning,  —  one  of  those  beautiful, 
quiet,  sunny  mornings,  which  are  never  witnessed  save 
in  the  country.  Sunday  is  always  a  different,  a  more 
hallowed  day,  than  any  other  of  the  week ;  but  when  it 
is  accompanied  by  pleasant  skies,  warm  and  sunshiny 
weather,  green  woods  and  fields,  together  with  a  delight- 
some country  atmosphere,  it  throws  around  man  an  in- 
fluence for  good  unknown  to  all  other  days.  Hastings 
crossed  the  river  and  followed  the  road,  which  soon  led 
him  through  a  thick  wood,  close  along  on  the  bank  of 
the  dark  and  shaded  water  below  him.  There  was  a 
stillness  in  all  around  which  was  almost  oppressive. 
No  sound  could  be  heard,  save  the  occasional  chirping 
of  a  bird,  or  the  ripple  of  the  water  as  it  fell  over  the 
stones.  The  leaves  on  the  surrounding  trees  were  not 
ruffled  by  even  a  breath  of  air.  All  nature  seemed  to 
be  keeping  this  general  day  of  rest.  As  Hastings  walked 
slowly  along  under  the  thick  shade,  he  became  thought- 
ful and  meditative.  He  was  about  to  take  a  desperate 
step,  and  one  that  he  would  condemn  in  another.  At 
length  he  seated  himself  on  a  log  that  lay  close  to  the 
river,  and  fell  naturally  into  a  spirit  of  reverie.  His 


OK,   LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  285 

mind  wandered  back  to  the  days  of  his  boyhood.  He 
remembered  the  time  when  he  first  met  the  beautiful 
Cornelia  at  Saratoga ;  he  thought  of  his  marriage  with 
Ida  Linwood,  of  her  sudden  death,  and  of  the  loss  of  his 
child.  These  and  more  came  into  his  mind,  and  he  felt 
that  Ms  life  had  been  filled  up  with  disappointments  and 
blasted  hopes.  As  he  sat  thus,  swallowed  up  in  thought, 
he  heard  Jhe  village  bell  as  it  tolled  the  villagers  to  the 
house  of  God.  "  Perhaps,"  thought  he,  "  Cornelia  is  now 
among  those  who  are  obeying  its  summons.  Little  does 
she  think  that  I  am  so  near.  Little  does  she  dream  that 
she  will  see  me  before  night.  But  had  I  not  better  wait 
here  in  these  woods  until  night,  before  I  go  to  the  vil- 
lage ?  If  I  go  to  the  house  where  she  is  at  once,  I  may 
not  see  her  at  all.  Belmonte  might  see  me,  and  that 
would  frustrate  ah1  my  plans.  I  will  wait  here  until 
nightfall."  He  got  up,  thinking  to  walk  a  little  way 
from  the  road,  so  as  not  to  be  seen  by  those  who  might 
chance  to  pass.  He  walked  a  few  hundred  rods  further 
down  the  river,  and  was  turning  into  a  thick  wood,  when 
he  saw  seated  before  him,  Belmonte.  He  had  time  to 
look  at  him  only  a  moment,  when  their  eyes  met.  From 
Belmonte's  flashed  rage  and  resentment  —  from  Hast- 
ings' cool  determination.  Belmonte  sprang  to  his  feet 
and  rushed  towards  Hastings,  but  stopped  when  within 
a  few  feet  of  him. 

"  Villain ! "  cried  he,  fiercely,  "  how  dare  you  insult  me 
by  your  presence  again !  " 

"  I  thought  you  were  in  the  South,"  answered  Hast- 
ings, ironically.  "  I  came  here  to  see  one  more  worthy." 

"  Hypocrite  !  Dastard !  Take  that ! "  replied  Belmonte, 
in  a  storm  of  passion,  as  he  pulled  a  revolver  from  his 
pocket  and  fired  it  at  Hastings. 

He  missed  his  aim ;  and  Hastings,  rushing  up  to  him, 
commenced  a  struggle  for  the  weapon.  They  were 


286  THE    CROOKED  ELM  J 

close  on  the  bank  of  the  river.  Belmonte  was  yielding 
ground;  Hastings  had  already  taken  the  pistol  from 
him,  and  thrown  it  into  the  water.  The  struggle  con- 
tinued; Belmonte  drew  a  knife,  and  raised  his  hand 
to  plunge  it  into  Hastings.  His  foot  tripped,  however, 
before  the  blow  could  be  struck,  and  they  both  fell  over 
the  bank.  The  fall  separated  them.  Belmonte  got  up 
and  walked  away,  saying  as  he  did  so :  — 

"  You  will  hear  from  me  soon,  in  a  manner  that  will 
teach  you  that  I  know  how  to  revenge  an  insult ! " 

"  Why  not  teach  me  the  lesson  now,  coward ! "  an- 
swered Hastings,  determinedly.  He  made  no  reply  ;  but 
left  the  wood  and  Hastings  to  themselves.  "  This  is 
unfortunate,"  muttered  Hastings,  as  soon  as  he  was 
alone.  "  I  fear  it  will  deprive  me  of  seeing  her  alto- 
gether. But,  now  that  he  knows  I  am  here,  I  care  not 
for  consequences.  I  will  go  and  see  her  this  very  night! 
Did  I  not  know  how  utterly  unworthy  he  is  of  her,  I 
would  trouble  him  no  more.  As  it  is,  I  will  see  her  or 
die  attempting  it ! "  That  night  Hastings  went  to  the 
house  where  he  learned  that  Mrs.  Belmonte  was  staying, 
and  rung  the  bell.  It  was  answered  by  the  lady  of  the 
house. 

"  Is  Mrs.  Belmonte  in  ?  "  inquired  Hastings. 

"  No,  they  left  here  about  an  hour  ago." 

"  Can  you  tell  me  where  th*  ey  went  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Belmonte  said  he  was  going  back  to  the  city  — 
that  important  business  called  him  away.  May  I  in- 
quire your  name,  if  you  please  ?  "  said  she. 

"  William  Hastings." 

"  Oh !  I  have  often  heard  Mrs.  Belmonte  speak  of 
you.  Will  you  walk  in,  Mr.  Hastings  ?  " 

He  accepted  the  invitation  thus  cordially  given,  and 
remained  talking  with  her  for  some  time.  He  learned 
all  that  he  could  of  what  had  taken  place.  She  told 


OB,   LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  287 

him  when  Belmonte  had  come  there  so  unexpectedly, 
and  many  other  things  which  Hastings  sought  to  know. 
When  he  had  learned  all  that  he  wished,  he  left,  ex- 
pressing his  regret  at  not  finding  those  whom  he  had 
purposely  come  to  see.  She  was  very  sorry  at  his  dis- 
appointment, and  pressed  him  hard  to  remain  all  night ; 
but  he  declined,  thanking  her  kindly  for  her  politeness. 
He  returned  at  once  to  the  city,  and  remained  there 
several  days.  He  sent  a  messenger  to  Belmonte's 
office,  and  learned  that  Belmonte  had  gone  to  a  small 
village  in  Michigan,  on  the  St.  Clair  River.  He  at  once 
set  out  for  the  place ;  and  after  two  days'  travel  arrived 
there  just  at  dusk,  and  by  inquiring  learned  where  Bel- 
monte was  stopping.  He  then  went  to  his  room  and 
wrote  the  following  letter  :  — 

"  DEAREST  CORNELIA  :  —  I  am   stopping  at  the 

Hotel.  I  have  come  here  to  see  you.  I  received  your 
letter  demanding  the  return  of  your  letters.  I  could  not 
—  I  can  not  believe  that  you  wrote  it  voluntarily.  I 
have  much  to  say  to  you  —  I  must  see  you  at  least  once 
more  !  I  must  know,  dearest  Cornelia,  from  your  own 
lips,  what  your  wishes  are.  I  will  then  obey  them  to 
the  letter.  Can  you  not  appoint  a  meeting  where  we 
will  be  undisturbed  by  him  ?  I  will  not  write  more  now. 
I  have  seen  the  servant  where  you  stop,  and  have  em- 
ployed her  to  give  you  this.  You  can  trust  her  in 
any  thing.  Write  one  word,  telling  me  how  and  when 
I  can  see  you,  and  hand  the  letter  to  the  servant.  It 
will  come  to  me  safely.  I  am  dying  with  impatience  to 
see  and  talk  with  you !  I  await  an  answer,  —  I  have 
learned  that  Belmonte  is  not  at  home. 

Ever  your  WILLIAM." 

The  servant  handed  this  letter  to  Mrs.  Belmonte,  as 


288  THE   CROOKED   ELM  J 

directed.  She  glanced  over  its  contents  eagerly,  and 
for  the  moment  forgot  all  else  save  the  fact  that  her 
lover  was  in  the  same  village  with  herself.  She  seized 
her  pen  and  wrote :  — 

"  I  am  so  much  rejoiced,  William,  that  you  are  here ! 
I  will  meet  you  in  the  garden  at  the  back  of  the  house, 
close  by  the  little  gate  which  you  will  see.  Walter  is 
not  here,  he  will  be  absent  until  to-morrow.  I  will  be 
there  at  ten  or  eleven  o'clock.  A  thousand  thanks  for 
coming  to  see  me  !  I  am  delirious  with  excitement !  I 
long  for  the  hour  to  come  when  I  can  tell  you  all  that 
has  happened !  Be  sure  to  be  at  the  back  gate  at  ten 
o'clock.  CORNELIA." 

She  hastily  folded  what  she  had  written  and  gave  it 
to  the  servant,  and  waited  anxiously  for  all  in  the  house 
to  retire.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  they  never  would  go  to 
their  bedrooms.  She  walked  up  and  down  the  stairs 
leading  to  her  room  at  least  a  dozen  times,  telling  them 
all  how  very  sleepy  she  was.  She  looked  at  her  watch, 
yawned,  and  in  every  way  possible  tried  to  hurry  them 
off  to  their  beds.  At  length  the  lights  were  extinguished, 
and  the  house  was  quiet.  Mrs.  Belmonte  immediately 
stole  from  her  room,  and  crept  as  noiselessly  as  possible 
down  the  stairs  and  out  of  the  back  door.  She  then 
glided  through  the  garden  to  the  point'  indicated  in  her 
letter.  Hastings  was  there.  She  threw  herself  into  his 
arms,  exclaiming,  in  a  suppressed  but  passionate  voice, 
"  William ! "  They  stood  in  silence  for  some  time, 
locked  in  each  other's  embrace.  Each  felt  an  over- 
flowing joy  that  no  words  can  express,  no  hearts  know, 
save  their  own.  It  was  the  meeting  of  anxious  hearts, 
long  bound  to  each  other  by  the  indissoluble  and  inde- 
structible bonds  of  love. 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  289 

"  Oh,  William!    I  am  so  rejoiced  to  see  you  again! 
I  had  begun  to  think  that  we  should  never  meet ! " 
"  You  did  not  doubt  me,  Cornelia  ?  " 
"  No ;  but  Walter  says  I  must  leave  the  country  with 
him  for  Europe  in  two  weeks'  time." 

They  walked  into  another  part  of  the  garden,  and 
seated  themselves  behind  some  shrubbery,  where  they 
were  concealed  from  view.  The  moon  shone  brightly, 
and  Hastings  saw  the  unnatural  pallor  of  Mrs.  Bel- 
monte's  cheeks.  She  looked  troubled  and  unhappy, 
although  for  the  moment  a  melancholy  pleasure  rested 
upon  her  countenance.  "  William,"  said  she,  as  she 
looked  lovingly  into  his  eyes,  "  I  have  prayed  for  this 
hour,  that  I  might  see  and  talk  with  you  once  more. 
I  am  so  happy  that  my  prayer  is  answered!"  He 
pressed  her  to  his  bosom,  and  said  :  — 

"  Cornelia,  why  did  you  write  me  that  cold  let- 
ter?" 

"  He  made  me  write  it.  Did  you  get  the  other  one 
that  I  wrote  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  got  no  other." 

"  Then  he  must  have  intercepted  it,"  said  she,  with  a 
slight  expression  of  fear  in  her  countenance. 

"  Well,  Cornelia,  let  us  say  no  more  of  the  past  — 
let  us  speak  of  the  future." 

"  The  future  is  a  dark  blank  to  me !  "  answered  she. 
"  There  is  no  hope  left  of  happiness.  Despised  by  my 
husband,  and  cut  off  from  all  that  I  hold  dear,  I  can 
only  look  forward  to  the  grave  as  the  termination  of  a 
life  of  sorrow  !  " 

"  You  must  not  think  so  despondingly,  dearest.     We 
do  not  know  what  changes  may  come  ?  " 
"  I  know  there  is  no  happiness  left  for  me." 
"  Do  you  wish,  Cornelia,  to  leave  him  ?     If  you  do,  I 
25 


290  THE   CROOKED   ELM  J 

will  be  your  protector,  and  will  too  gladly  serve  you  in 
every  wish." 

"  No,  William !  much  as  I  should  rejoice  to  go  with 
you,  I  cannot.  I  have  a  mother  and  father  and  friendb, 
—  I  cannot  disgrace  them.  I  must  not  bring  a  stain 
upon  their  name.  No !  I  must  not  do  that.  You  know 
how  much  I  love  you  !  how  I  have  ever  loved  you,  since 
we  first  met !  I  would  give  up  all,  and  go  with  you  to 
the  ends  of  the  earth,  were  it  not  for  my  relatives  and 
friends  !  You  will  not  ask  me  to  injure  them  by  leav- 
ing my  husband  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  ask  you  to  leave  him,"  said  Hastings.  "  I 
know  the  obstacles  in  the  way.  I  can  only  offer  my 
life  in  your  service,  whenever  you  may  find  it  of  use  to 
you." 

They  sat  together  until  an  early  hour.  Day  was  just 
beginning  to  dawn.  The  hour  when  they  must  separate, 
perhaps  forever,  had  already  come. 

"  Dearest,"  said  Hastings,  "  do  you  know  that  day  is 
dawning  ?  " 

"  Oh,  do  not  speak  of  going,  William  !  I  shall  die,  if 
separated  from  you ! " 

"  This  night's  happiness,"  said  he,  "  will  compensate 
me  for  the  life  of  banishment  that  I  must  endure,  in 
being  deprived  the  bliss  of  your  society." 

"  Oh  do  not  go !  —  do  not  leave  me ! "  said  she,  in  an 
agitated  and  tremulous  voice. 

"  Will  you  go  with  me  ?  —  Say  but  the  word,  and  we 
will  never  separate ! " 

"  I  must  not.     But  do  not  leave  me." 

She  was  almost  wild  at  the  thought  of  parting  with 
him.  It  grew  lighter  and  lighter.  Never  before  had 
day  seemed  to  displace  darkness  so  rapidly.  Mrs.  Bel- 
monte  nerved  herself  as  well  as  she  could ;  and,  with 


OR,   LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  291 

pledges  of  fidelity  and  lasting  love,  and  with  tears 
wrung  as  it  were  from  her  sorrowing  heart,  they  took 
a  last,  fond  embrace.  What  a  world  of  happiness  and 
misery  in  that  one  moment. 

"'  Remember,  dearest  Cornelia,"  said  Hastings,  as  he 
pressed  her  to  him  convulsively,  "  that  while  I  live  my 
life  is  at  your  command.  I  shall  always  think  of  you 
as  I  now  do,  and  regret  the  cruel  fate  that  separates  us." 

"  I  know  not,"  said  she,  "  what  I  may  be  compelled 
to  do  hereafter  but  when  you  are  gone  and  while  I  am 
li ving ;  I  wish  you  to  think  and  know  that  I  am  what 
you  see  me  now,  wholly  and  entirely  devoted  to  you. 
Do  not  for  a  moment  doubt  my  love." 

"  Good-by,  Cornelia !  May  God  bless  and  protect 
you ! "  He  pressed  her  to  him  —  their  lips  met. 
Another  moment,  and  Hastings  had  gone.  Mrs.  Bel- 
monte  watched  him  until  he  passed  from  her  sight,  and 
then,  with  the  full  realization  of  her  desolate  and  for- 
lorn situation,  she  returned  noiselessly  to  the  house  and 
regained  her  room.  That  morning  Hastings  went  down 
to  the  little  steamer  that  lay  at  the  wharf,  and  took  pas- 
sage for  home.  He  looked  as  he  passed  the  house  where 
Mrs.  Belmonte  was,  and  saw  her  at  an  upper  window, 
watching  the  boat  as  it  moved  away.  They  recognized 
each  other  —  each  waved  a  white  handkerchief.  The 
boat  soon  disappeared,  and  Mrs.  Belmonte  retired  to  ner 
room  to  weep  over  her  heart-breaking  sorrows ;  and 
Hastings  went  to  his  state-room  to  think  over  the  strange 
incidents  of  the  last  fortnight.  He  had  eaten  nothing, 
scarcely,  neither  had  he  slept  much,  since  he  had  re- 
ceived the  letter  which  Mrs.  Belmonte  had  been  com- 
pelled to  write  him.  Entirely  exhausted  and  worn-out, 
he  at  last  fell  into  a  feverish  sleep.  In  his  dreams  he 
saw  Mrs.  Belmonte  pale  and  trembling,  as  she  in  fear 
obeyed  the  commands  of  her  husband.  Again  he  strag- 


292  THE  CROOKED   ELM; 

gled  with  Belmonte,  —  and  again  was  he  seated  beside 
his  Cornelia.  He  soon  awoke,  however,  to  feel  the  des- 
olation of  all  his  previgus  hopes. 

Mrs.  Belmonte  remained  in  her  room  all  that  day. 
She  saw  no  light  to  cheer  or  guide  her  in  life's  dark 
path.  How  desolate  must  be  the  life  of  a  woman 
united  to  a  man  whom  she  does  not  love,  —  and  how 
more  than  desolate  must  she  be,  if  she  loves  and  is 
loved  by  another.  The  question  may  be  asked,  "  Why 
does  a  woman  marry  a  man  whom  she  does  not  love  ?  " 
It  is  a  question  easily  asked,  and  one  which  I  will  not 
try  to  answer.  I  state  it  as  a  fact,  however,  that  many 
such  marriages  occur  daily.  We  all  know  it.  It  may  be 
a  fault  of  the  parties  themselves,  or  of  the  parents  of  the 
parties,  or  a  fault  of  society.  It  is  a  question  which  I 
leave  with  the  reader. 

Belmonte,  who  had  been  absent  with  some  friends  on 
a  fishing  excursion,  returned  home  late  at  night ;  and  on 
the  next  morning  set  out  with  Mrs.  Belmonte  for  New 
York. 

"  I  wish  you,"  said  Belmonte,  addressing  his  wife 
while  seated  together  on  the  boat,  "  to  prepare  to  leave 
for  Europe  in  less  than  a  fortnight.  I  am  going  to  leave 
a  place  infested  with  villains  and  treacherous  women  ! 
I  will  no  longer  live  in  a  city  where  honor  has  no  con- 
trol over  either  man's  or  woman's  actions.  I  will  leave 
New  York  immediately,  and  as  1  hope  forever,  as  a 
place  of  residence."  Mrs.  Belmonte  made  no  answer 
to  what  he  said.  A  settled  melancholy  rested  upon  her 
countenance.  She  grew  more  and  more  pale  every  day. 
Her  health  was  fast  declining.  She  was  dying  of  a 
broken  heart.  In  less  than  two  weeks'  time  they  took 
passage  for  Europe.  Their  friends  went  down  to  the 
wharf  to  see  them  off.  Hastings  had  learned  when  they 
were  to  sail,  and  had  selected  a  spot  commanding  a 


OR,   LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  293 

view  of  the  vessel  in  which  they  were.  He  saw  Mrs. 
Belmonte ;  but  she  looked  in  vain  for  him.  He  remained 
gazing  at  the  vessel  until  it  had  moved  far  out  into  the 
channel,  —  then  turning  away  he  muttered :  — 

"  Cornelia,  I  pity  you  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart ! 
and  am  I  not  to  blame  for  your  present  unhappiness  ?  " 
This  thought  troubled  him,  and  he  continued  to  repeat, 
as  he  returned  to  his  home,  "  Am  I  not  to  blame  for  it 
all  ?  "  As  he  turned  the  corner  of  a  street,  he  saw  Mrs. 
Delacy  passing  him  in  her  carriage.  Their  eyes  met. 
She  too  had  stood  afar  off,  and  watched  the  vessel  as 
it  moved  away  with  Mrs.  Belmonte.  She  was  return- 
ing exultant  to  her  home.  She  saw  Hastings'  dejected 
countenance,  and  when  their  eyes  met  she  gave  him  a 
look  significant  of  her  victory.  She  was,  for  the  moment, 
proud  and  defiant.  She  was  enjoying  the  unnatural 
pleasure  of  a  gratified  revenge.  She  had  seen  Mrs. 
Belmonte  dragged  unwillingly  away  from  Hastings.  "  1 
have  shown  them,"  thought  she,  "  that  I  am  powerful  yet, 
and  that  I  will  not  brook  a  rival,  nor  submit  to  insult." 
Mrs.  Delacy  still  loved  Hastings  as  wildly  as  ever,  and,  had 
he  signified  a  desire  to  renew  friendship  with  her,  she 
would  have  been  but  too  delighted.  She  knew  him, 
however,  too  well  to  ever  hope  to  be  reinstated  in  his 
good  opinion,  and  she  lived  only  to  prevent  any  other 
from  'enjoying  what  was  forever  deprived  herself.  When 
she  arrived  at  home,  she  threw  herself  exhausted  on  her 
bed,  and  exclaimed :  "  I  can  now  rest  contented !  —  I 
have  realized  the  last  wish  of  my  heart !  —  I  have  seen 
them  separated  with  my  own  eyes !  —  I  have  sent  her 
adrift,  with  her  amiable  husband ! " 
25* 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 


HARRY  COLUNGWOOD  had  been  placed  by  his  parents  in 
the  family  of  a  clergyman,  the  father  of  the  principal  of 
the  school.  There  were  three  other  boys  about  Harry's 
age  in  the  same  family,  and  attending  the  same  school 
with  him.  The  clergyman  was  a  very  large  man,  with 
large  feet,  large  hands,  a  large  head,  and  a  large  appetite. 
He  usually  wore  a  large  pair  of  glasses  astride  his  large, 
fleshy  nose,  and  was  in  the  habit  of  removing  them  with 
his  left  thumb  and  forefinger  whenever  he  had  any 
thing  of  peculiar  importance  to  say  to  the  boys  under 
his  charge.  His  voice  was  deep  and  hollow,  and  seemed 
to  proceed  from  some  far  down  cavern  in  the  abdominal 
regions.  He  seldom  laughed,  or  even  smiled,  except  at 
his  own  Latin  jokes,  which  none  in  the  family  under- 
stood save  himself.  He  took  great  delight  in  teaching 
his  pupils  the  beauties  and  force  of  the  guttural  sounds 
in  declamation.  It  was  on  the  guttural  that  he  prided 
himself.  Those  deep,  Macbethian,  sepulchral  tones, 
were  to  him  the  music  of  the  spheres.  It  was  his  de- 
light, when  in  the  pulpit,  to  startle  the  weak  nerved 
of  his  congregation,  by  hurling  at  them  the  denuncia- 
tions of  scripture  against  the  wicked.  Frequently 
would  he,  in  all  the  perfection  of  his  elocutionary  art, 


THE   CROOKED   ELM.  295 

make  the  sinner  shake  in  his  seat,  as  he  thundered  forth 
such  sentences  as  these :  — 

"  Woe  unto  thee,  Chorazin !  woe  unto  thee,  Beth- 
saida !"...."  And  thou,  Capernaum,  which  art  ex- 
alted unto  heaven,  shall  be  brought  down  to  hell!!" 
The  last  sentence  —  "  shall  be  brought  down  to  hell "  — 
would  seem  to  come  up,  not  from  that  hadeian  region, 
but  from  some  gloomy,  cavernous  hollow,  concealed  be- 
neath the  old  man's  protuberant  waistbands.  It  was 
his  custom  to  stand  the  young  hopefuls  in  his  family  up 
in  one  corner  of  his  study  every  working-day  in  the 
week,  and  practice  them  in  the  useful  art  of  declama- 
tion. Passages  from  the  ghost  scene  in  Hamlet,  and 
other  like  productions,  were  favorites  with  him  on  such 
occasions.  The  old  dominie  had  a  wife  the  very  oppo- 
site of  himself.  She  was  tall  and  thin,  and  as  shrivelled 
up  as  a  dried  apple.  Her  voice  was  squeaky  and  sharp ; 
her  face  thin,  sharp,  and  long;  and  her  nose  was  so 
thin,  that  when  it  was  between  one  and  daylight  it  was 
almost  transparent.  Her  arms,  hands,  legs,  and  feet 
seemed  to  be  of  the  same  piece  with  her  body,  —  all  of 
which  were  slender,  lank,  and  long.  Indeed,  the  gut- 
tural proclivities  of  her  husband  seemed  to  have  shaken 
all  the  flesh  from  her  bones.  She  was,  in  short,  a  living 
and  breathing  testimonial  of  the  force  and  effect  of  the 
guttural  system  of  elocution.  These  twain  had  two 
children,  —  one  the  principal  of  the  school,  a  man  about 
twenty-five  years  old,  the  other  a  lad  of  thirteen.  The 
former  possessed  nothing  peculiar,  either  in  character  or 
look,  from  other  men.  He  was  about  an  equal  mixture 
of  his  parents,  having  the  sharp  nose  of  his  mother, 
and  the  guttural  voice  of  his  father.  He  was  excessively 
attached  to  the  system  of  elocution  which  his  father 
had  with  so  much  pains  drilled  into  him.  He  prided  him- 
self in  being  able  to  make  all  his  pupils  brilliant  young 


296  THE   CROOKED   ELM  J 

orators.  The  latter  was  peculiarly  his  mother's  child. 
He  was  the  counterpart  of  herself,  and  all  the  old  man's 
efforts  to  teach  him  the  beauties  of  the  guttural  tones  of 
voice  were  useless;  his  voice  would  squeak,  and  all 
attempts  to  bring  it  up  from  lower  down  in  his  throat 
than  his  shirt  collar,  were  futile.  It  was  all  "  Love's 
labor  lost." 

The  clergyman's  name  was  Doremus  Babblington; 
but  the  boys,  the  irreverent  rascals,  used  to  call  him, 
when  by  themselves,  "  Old  Babble."  To  Mrs.  Babbling- 
ton  they  gave  the  soubriquet  of  "  Old  Mrs.  Babble,"  — 
old  being  prefixed  in  both  cases  to  distinguish  them 
from  the  principal  of  the  school  and  his  wife.  When 
Harry  was  first  left  in  this  family,  the  three  boys  men- 
tioned were  absent  spending  vacation.  He  therefore  nat- 
urally enough  felt  lonesome  and  homesick  until  they  re- 
turned. Indeed,  he  would  have  given  any  tiling  he  had, 
or  ever  expected  to  have,  could  he  have  been  back  again 
at  his  home  in  Virginia.  Five  long  and  dreary  days 
did  he  pass  with  these  three  specimens  of  the  genus 
homo;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  thought  them  the  queer- 
est trio  that  he  had  ever  looked  upon.  He  was  far  gone 
with  the  blues,  and  was  thinking  seriously  of  setting 
out  for  home  on  foot,  when  the  boys,  who  had  been 
absent,  came  back.  They  had  been  there  one  term  al- 
ready, and  had  been  initiated  into  the  peculiarities  of 
the  place.  The  night  after  they  returned,  one  of  them, 
a  tall,  generous-faced,  and  good-looking  lad,  went  to 
Harry  and  invited  him  to  go  with  him  into  his  room. 
Harry  gladly  accepted  the  invitation,  and  when  they 
went  in  they  found  the  other  two  boys  there. 

"  My  name,"  said  the  tall  boy,  addressing  Harry,  "  is 
Charles  Willington,  but  the  boys  call  me  Charley.  What 
is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Harry  Collingwood." 


OR,   LITE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  297 

«  I  like  that  name,"  said  Charley.  "  I  always  did  like 
Harry,  and  I  am  sure  I  shall  like  you."  "  This,"  con- 
tinued he,  "  is  Richard  Evans.  We  always  call  him 
Richard  the  Third,  or  Dick.  This  is  George  Washing- 
ton Jackson  Smith,"  said  he,  introducing  Hariy  to  a 
pale,  thin  boy,  who  seemed  weighed  down  by  the  great- 
ness of  his  name.  "  We  always,"  said  Charley,  "  call 
him  Wash,  for  shortness.  So  now  you  know  us  all. 
Where  do  you  live,  Harry  ?  " 

"  In  Virginia." 

"  Virginia  ?  "  queried  Charley.  "  Virginia  ?  —  where 
is  Virginia,  Wash.  Smith  ?  " 

"  It  is  one  of  the  States  south  of  the  Ohio  River," 
answered  young  Smith. 

"  Oh !  I  recollect,"  said  Charley.  "  It  is  that  yellow 
State  on  the  map.  Oh,  yes !  I  know  now.  That 
must  be  a  pleasant  country,  Harry  ?  " 

"  It  is  very  pleasant,"  said  Harry. 

"  Do  you  like  almonds,  Harry  ?  "  asked  Charley,  as  he 
went  to  his  trunk  to  unlock  it. 

"  Yes,  I  am  very  fond  of  them." 

"  How  fortunate ! "  exclaimed  Charley.  "  I  have  some 
here  in  my  trunk.  Cousin  Lib  put  them  up  for  me ! " 
As  he  said  this,  he  took  from  his  trunk  a  large  paper  of 
almonds  and  distributed  them  among  his  *ompanions, 
giving  Harry  a  large  portion.  He  was  the  same  lad 
who  carried  Miss  Leighton's  letter  to  Hastings,  on  the 
snowy  morning  described  in  a  previous  chapter.  When 
they  had  eaten  the  almonds,  Harry  remembered  the 
cake  which  Aunt  Rose  had  put  up  for  him,  and  he  went 
to  his  room  and  got  it. 

"  Here,"  said  he,  as  he  came  back,  "  is  a  pound-cake 
that  Rose  put  in  my  trunk.  Do  you  like  pound-cake, 
Charley?" 

Charley  answered  affirmatively,  and  taking  the  cake 


298  THE   CKOOKED   ELM  ; 

from  Harry  cut  it  up  with  his  pocket-knife ;  and  they 
all  feasted  on  the  good  things  before  them. 

"  Is  Rose  your  cousin,  Harry  ? "  inquired  Charley. 
"  You  said  Rose  gave  you  this  cake." 

"  Oh,  no ;  Rose  is  one  of  father's  slaves.  She  is  very 
good." 

"Oh!  I  didn't  know  but  that  she  was  your  cousin 
I  have  got  a  cousin  Lib,  and  she  torments  my  life  out 
She  thinks  that  I  was  mader  for  no  other  purpose  than 
to  carry  her  messages  and  run  on  errands.  I  '11  tell  you 
what !  I  am  getting  too  old  to  be  ordered  about  by 
her;  and  when  I  go  back  home,  I'll  just  tell  her  so,  too. 
I'll  tell  her  to  carry  her  own  messages.  I  am  glad, 
Harry,  that  Rose  is  not  your  cousin." 

George  Washington  Jackson  Smith  seldom  if  ever 
spoke,  except  when  a  question  was  referred  to  him,  re- 
quiring more  book  knowledge  than  the  others  were 
master  of.  He  was  the  best  scholar  of  the  three,  and 
was  liked  by  Charley  and  Dick,  because  he  was  a  very 
kind-hearted  and  generous  boy.  Richard  Evans,  or 
"  Richard  the  Third,"  was  noted  for  his  powers  of  dec- 
lamation. He  seldom  talked  much,  save  when  he  was 
posted  in  the  corner  of  old  Mr.  Babblington's  study. 

"  Harry,"  said  Charley,  as  they  sat  eating  the  pound* 
cake,  "  has  Old  Babble  been  teaching  you  the  guttural 
yet?" 

"  No,"  answered  Harry ;  "  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  see,  Harry,  he  stands  us  up  in  one  corner 
of  his  room  and  makes  us  speak  from  way  down  in  our 
throats ;  this  he  calls  the  «  Guttural  System.'  Isn't  it 
a  queer  name,  Harry  ?  You  ought  to  hear  Richard  the 
Third  come  down  on  the  guttural !  Dick,  show  Harry 
how  you  do  it." 

Dick  stood  up  as  requested,  and  commenced  in  as 
deep  a  voice  as  possible  :  — 


OR,   LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  299 

"  Now  is  the  winter  of  our  discontent 
Made  glorious  summer,  by  this  son  of  York." 

When  he  had  gone  through  the  whole  soliloquy,  as 
taught  him  by  Mr.  Babblington,  Charley  cried  out :  — 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that,  Harry  ?  That  is  what 
Old  Babble  calls  the  guttural.  Dick  has  the  system  to 
perfection.  Have  you  seen  Squeaking  Jimmy  yet  ?  " 
inquired  Charley. 

"  No  ;  "  answered  Harry,  "  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  Old  Babble's  weazen-faced  boy.  They 
call  him  a  —  a  —  t  —  tradegy.  Is  that  the  word, 
Wash?" 

"  A  prodigy,"  answered  young  Smith. 

"  Yes,  prodigy ;  that  is  the  word.  They  say  he  is  a 
prodigy  in  book-learning,  Harry; — but  I  don't  believe 
he  is  better  than  Wash  Smith ;  for  Wash  knows  as 
much  as  any  one  need  know." 

"  I  have  seen  him,"  said  Harry ;  "  he  is  a  slim  fel- 
low." 

"  That  is  he.  Don't  he  look  for  all  the  world  like 
Death  in  the  Primer  ?  Old  Babble  won't  let  him  come 
to  our  rooms,  neither  will  he  let  him  play  with  us.  You 
ought  to  see  him  practising  the  system  —  Lord!  — 
don't  he  murder  the  guttural !  Dick,  show  Harry  how 
he  squeaks." 

Dick  got  up  again,  and,  gesticulating  in  an  extrava- 
gant and  awkward  manner,  commenced  declaiming  in 
a  squeaky,  nasal  tone  of  voice,  the  speech  of  Moloch, 
beginning :  — 

"  My  sentence  is  for  open  war :  of  wiles 
More  unexpert  I  boast  not " 

They  all  laughed  until  their  sides  ached ;  and  when 
he  had  finished,  Charley  said :  — 

«  That,  Harry,  is  just  like  him.     Dick  takes  him  off 


300  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

better  than  Squeaking  Jimmy  does  it  himself.  All  his 
speeches  are  for  open  war.  One  would  think  him  an 
—  an — an  —  who  was  he,  Wash  Smith,  who  whipped 
aU  the  world?" 

«  Alexander." 

"  Yes,  Harry,  one  would  fancy  him  a  second  Alex- 
ander in  the  way  of  fighting.  Don't  he  look  like  open 
war!  But  little  people  will  boast  and  talk  big,  you 
know.  Squeaking  Jimmy  fighting !  Why,  Wash 
Smith  could  knock  him  into  a  cocked  hat  in  no  time. 
Have  you  seen  Old  Babble's  feet  yet  ?  " 

"  No ;  what  of  them  ?  "  inquired  Harry,  laughing. 

"  His  boots,"  said  Charley,  "  are  big  enough  for 
sleeping  apartments  for  two  or  three  such  fellows  as 
Wash  Smith.  I  think  Squeaking  Jimmy  sleeps  in 
one  of  them  every  night,  along  with  the  big  tom- 
cat." 

At  this  remark  they  all  laughed,  and  speculated  as  to 
what  part  of  the  boot  Jimmy's  head  must  occupy. 

"There  is  old  Mrs.  Babble,"  continued  Charley; 
"  is  n't  she  a  picture !  You  ought  to  see  her  sit  cross- 
legged,  singing  psalm  tunes.  Dick,  show  Harry  how 
she  sings." 

Dick  crossed  his  legs,  and  with  a  serio-comic  face 
commenced :  — 

"  From  Greenland's  icy  mountains, 
From  India's  coral  strand, 
Where  Afric's  sunny  fountains 
Boll  down  their  golden  sand." 

There  was  something  so  ludicrous  in  the  expression 
of  Dick's  face,  and  in  his  manner  and  voice  while  sing- 
ing, that  they  all  shook  their  sides  again,  much  to  the 
gratification  of  Dick,  who  was  not  insensible  to  their 


OR,   LIFE   BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  301 

praise.  Harry  thought  him  a  curiosity  —  a  perfect 
wonder,  in  his  way.  He  never  before  had  seen  any 
one  so  decidedly  funny. 

The  boys  in  old  Mr.  Babblington's  family  occupied 
rooms  in  a  house  adjoining  the  one  in  which  he  lived. 
The  lower  part  was  occupied  as  a  recitation-room,  and 
the  upper  part  as  their  sleeping  apartments.  They 
could,  therefore,  have  their  own  fun  without  much  fear 
of  being  disturbed.  Harry  had  already  formed  a  great 
liking  for  the  three  boys.  They  had  effectually  dis- 
pelled his  gloomy  thoughts  and  forebodings,  and  he 
began  to  think  his  prospects  not  so  hopelessly  blue  as 
he  had  at  first  thought  them.  At  the  very  outset,  he 
had  become  well  acquainted  with  them  all.  He  looked 
upon  Dick  as  a  decided  genius.  Wash  Smith  he  had 
been  taught  to  think  of  as  one  whose  head  was  filled 
with  a  prodigious  amount  of  book-learning,  and  Char- 
ley Willington  was  a  boy  after  his  own  heart.  If  he 
could  have  been  any  other  boy  than  himself,  he  would 
have  been  Charley  Willington.  They  talked  and 
laughed  on  the  first  night  of  their  introduction  to  Harry, 
until  a  late  hour.  He  had  made  a  good  impression  on 
the  boys,  and  was  at  once  admitted  into  their  private 
counsels,  and  welcomed  in  all  their  sports  as  heartily  as 
though  they  had  known  him  for  years.  There  were 
about  thirty  scholars  attending  the  Babblington  school ; 
but  most  of  them  were  much  further  advanced  than 
those  under  old  Mr.  Babblington's  immediate  charge ; 
and,  consequently,  did  not  mingle  much  with  them. 
Harry,  Charley,  Dick,  and  Wash  were  seldom  allowed 
to  mix  with  the  other  boys  in  the  school. 

On  the  first  morning  of  Term,  old  Mr.  Babblington 
invited  the  boys  in  his  family  into  his  study,  for  the 
purpose  of  assigning  them  their  lesson,  and  drilling 
26 


302  THE  CROOKED   ELM; 

them  in  his  favorite  art.    After  a  few  inaugural  remarks, 
usual  on  such  important  occasions,  he  said :  — 

"  Richard  Evans,  stand  up  in  the  corner  and  declaim 
Mark  Antony's  speech.  Mind  that  you  give  the  proper 
emphasis  and  accentuation  and  above  all  remember  the 
guttural  tones  in  the  passages  which  I  marked  for  you. 
This,"  continued  he,  "is  Master  Harry  Collingwood, 
from  Virginia.  Show  him  now,  Master  Richard,  the 
system  of  elocution  I  have  taught  you." 

Charley,  occasionally,  as  the  old  man  spoke,  looked 
at  Harry  and  very  significantly  closed  one  eye,  as  much 
as  to  say :  "  Isn't  this  rich  ?  You  are  now  about  "to 
be  initiated  into  the  system  that  Dick  exemplified  the 
other  night  in  my  room."  But  he  only  winked,  and  left 
Harry  to  imagine  what  he  would  have  said,  could  he 
have  had  the  opportunity. 

Dick  stood  up,  and  began :  — 

"  Friends,  Romans,  countrymen,  lend  me  your  ears ! " 
Several  times  during  the  delivery  of  the  speech,  old  Mr. 
Babblington  stopped  him,  and  told  him  how  he  might 
improve  certain  passages  ;  nor  did  he  neglect  to  cast  an 
eye  at  Harry  occasionally,  to  see  how  the  guttural  sys- 
tem affected  him.  But  Harry  had  already  been  so  far 
initiated  that  he  was  not  particularly  astonished.  He 
thought,  however,  that  Dick  was  a  perfect  orator,  and 
wondered  how  he  ever  had  mastered  so  much  of  the 
system  in  so  short  a  time.  He  almost  envied  him. 
When  Dick  had  finished,  Harry  was  requested  to  get  up 
and  declaim  any  thing  that  he  knew. 

"  Just  speak  any  thing,  Master  Harry,  that  you  have 
committed  to  memory,"  said  the   old   man,   encourag- 
ingly.    Harry  thought  for  a  moment,  and  then  said,  — 
"  I  never  have  learned  any  thing  in  my  life." 

"  Oh,  any  thing  at  all,  Master  Harry,"  said  the  old 


OR,  LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  303 

man  again,  "  any  verses  or  poetry  that  you  know,  if  it 
is  not  more  than  two  lines." 

Harry  taxed  his  recollection  again,  but  could  think  of 
nothing  except  the  prayer  that  he  had  learned  when  a 
child,  commencing :  — 

"  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep," 

and  some  verses  which  Aunt  Rose  had  taught  him. 
He  thought  that  it  was  not  the  proper  time  to  repeat 
the  prayer,  so  as  an  only  alternative  he  drew  upon 
Aunt  Rose,  and  getting  up  in  the  corner  which  Dick 
had  just  vacated,  commenced  in  imitation,  as  much  as 
he  could,  of  Dick's  guttural  tones :  — 

"  My  ole  Massa,  he  lubs  gin, 
An*  der  way  he  drinks  it,  am  a  sin." 

This  was  too  much  for  Charley  and  Dick.  They 
laughed  outright,  which  so  much  confused  Harry  that 
he  broke  down,  and  could  get  no  further  than  the  two 
lines  quoted.  Old  Mr.  Babblington  did  not  laugh,  but 
said,  in  an  encouraging  tone  of  voice :  — 

"  Those  lines,  Master  Harry,  which  you  have  just 
declaimed  so  well,  are  somewhat  peculiar ;  but  they 
serve' as  well  as  any  others  to  develop  the  art  of  elocu- 
tion. It  is  not  the  matter,  so  much  as  the  manner  of 
speaking,  which  I  teach.  Those  deep,  guttural  tones,  so 
universally  undeveloped  in  the  youth  of  our  country,  I 
bring  out  into  speaking  life.  Won't  you  get  up  again, 
Master  Harry,  and  declaim  something  else  that  you 
know?" 

Charley  looked  encouragingly,  and  whispered  in 
Harry's  ear,  that  he  only  laughed  at  the  funny  words 
which  he  had  spoken. 


304  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

"  You  did  charmingly ! "  said  Charley.  "  You  speak 
almost  as  well  as  Dick." 

Harry  was  in  doubt ;  he  did  not  like  to  be  excelled 
by  any  one;  and  more  than  all  he  disliked  being 
laughed  at.  He  took  the  corner  again,  as  a  last,  desper- 
ate alternative,  and  with  a  determined  accent,  and 
coming  down  stronger  than  ever  on  the  guttural,  be- 
gan:— 

"  Black  Susan,  she  fell  into  de  ribber, 
An'  de  way  she  got  out  I  nebber  could  disciber ; 
De  water  it  was  deep,  an'  running  berry  swif —  " 

Charley,  unable  longer  to  resist  his  risible  propensity, 
burst  into  an  illy  suppressed  laugh,  joined  by  Dick  and 
Wash.  Harry,  more  confused  than  ever,  returned  to 
his  seat.  Charley,  feeling  really  sorry  for  him,  and  re- 
gretting that  he  and  Dick  had  behaved  so  badly,  tried 
to  encourage  him. 

"  I  was  only  laughing  at  the  words,  Harry,"  whispered 
he.  "  They  are  such  funny  words." 

Old  Mr.  Babblington,  as  sedate  as  the  tones  of  his 
own  voice,  again  complimented  Harry's  delivery. 

"  When  you  have  been  here  one  quarter,"  said  he, 
"  you  will  be  as  good  as  Master  Richard,  than  whom 
I  have  no  better  scholar  in  the  school  in  that  interesting 
branch  which  I  have  very  significantly  and  appropri- 
ately denominated  the  Guttural  System.  Harry,  you 
will  commit  the  Soliloquy  of  Hamlet  to  memory,  so  as 
to  declaim  it  one  week  from  to-day.  Master  Charley 
will  show  you  where  to  find  it.  I  mean  the  one  com- 
mencing — 

«  Oh,  that  this,  too,  too  solid  flesh  would  melt ! "' 
Charley  whispered  to  Harry,  as  soon  as  the  old  man 


OR,   LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  305 

turned  his  eyes  :  —  "I  think,  Harry,  that  old  Mrs.  Bab- 
ble must  have  declaimed  that  speech  often ;  for  her 
flesh,  if  she  ever  had  any,  has  melted  and  'resolved 
i  «elf  into  a  dew.' " 

This  diplomatic  manoeuvre  of  Charley's  had  the  effect 
to  make  Harry  laugh  and  receive  Charley  into  favor 
again. 

That  night  they  all  assembled  in  Harry's  room  by  in- 
vitation, and  Harry  took  all  the  good  things  to  eat 
which  Rose  had  packed  away  for  him  out  of  his  trunk, 
and  distributed  them  among  his  school-fellows. 

"  I  say,  Harry,"  began  Charley,  "  how  do  you  like  the 
'  Guttural  System  ?  '  Those  were  the  funniest  words!  — 
'My  ole  Massa,  he  lub  gin!'"  Here  he  and 'Dick 
laughed  heartily,  but  Harry  did  not  feel  much  like  join- 
ing at  first.  He  soon  caught  the  laughing  contagion, 
however,  and  joined  them  in  their  cachinations  over 
this,  his  first  effort  in  developing  the  guttural  system. 
They  were  all  on  the  best  of  terms  again,  laughing  and 
talking,  and  enjoying  themselves  generally  as  much  as 
was  possible. 

"  Did  you  notice  old  Babble's  feet  to-day  ? "  inquired 
Charley. 

"  No,  I  did  n't  think  of  them." 

"  I,.suppose  you  were  too  busy  recollecting  those  fun- 
ny verses.  Just  look  at  them  to-morrow,  and  his  hands 
too !  Dick  says  they  remind  him  of  a  land-turtle,  belly 
upwards,  save  his  fingers,  which  he  says  are  like  over- 
ripe bananas.  You  ought  to  hear  him  preach.  Dick 
is  n't  to  be  compared  to  old  Babble  on  the  guttural. 
He  comes  down  powerfully,  and  no  mistake !  We  sit 
in  his  pew,  along  with  old  Mrs.  Babble  and  Squeaking 
Jimmy.  She  sits  cross-legged  and  sings  every  Sunday, 
just  as  Dick  did  the  other  night  I  wish  it  was  Sunday 
26* 


306  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

now,  so  that  you  could  hear  her !  Sometimes,  when  old 
Babble  is  going  it  strong  on  the  guttural,  she  groans  a 
little,  and  sighs,  and  looks  at  the  end  of  her  nose.  Dick 
says  he  can  read  fine  print  through  the  tip  of  her  nose 
on  a  sunshiny  day ;  but  I  doubt  that  a  little." 

As  Charley  was  going  on  in  this  strain,  they  heard 
some  one  coming  up  the  stairs,  and  in  a  moment  they 
were  as  still  as  possible. 

"  That  is  old  Babble,"  whispered  Charley.  « Let  us 
open  our  books  and  study,  as  if  for  our  lives." 

They  did  as  he  advised,  and  when  old  Mr.  Babbling- 
ton  opened  the  door  they  were  busy  preparing  their 
lessons  for  the  next  day.  He,  seeming  to  think  all  was 
right,  soon  left  them.  They  listened  until  he  stepped 
down  the  last  stair,  and  then  threw  their  books  aside. 

"  Sometimes  he  'sends  Squeaking  Jimmy  up  here," 
said  Charley.  "  But  I  think  Jimmy  is  getting  tired  of 
coming  to  see  us.  He  has  not  been  up  here  since  we 
played  that  trick  on  him.  One  night,"  continued  Char- 
ley, addressing  Harry,  "  Jimmy  came  up  here  after  dark, 
and  the  old  tomcat  followed  him  without  his  knowing 
it.  Well,  Wash  and  I  got  to  talking  with  him,  while 
Dick  took  the  cat  into  his  room  and  kept  it  there  until 
Squeaking  Jimmy  started  to  return.  It  was  dark  —  he 
could  see  nothing,  and,  just  as  he  stepped  into  the  hall, 
Dick  put  a  split  stick  on  the  cat's  tail,  which  pinched  it 
terribly,  and  then  let  it  go.  Lord!  didn't  they  cut  a 
figure  going  through  the  hall !  It  would  be  difficult  to 
say  which  squeaked  the  louder.  They  both  tumbled 
down  the  stairs  in  their  fright ;  —  the  tomcat  over  Jim- 
my, and  Jimmy  over  the  tomcat.  The  cat  got  the  stick 
off  its  tail  somehow,  so  that  we  were  never  found  out. 
Squeaking  Jimmy  thought  it  was  a  ghost,  doubtless,  for 
he  never  has  ventured  up  here  since  after  dark." 


OR,  LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  307 

"  Were  you  not  afraid  that  he  would  hurt  himself 
tumbling  down  stairs  ?  "  asked  Harry. 

"  Trust  him  for  that,"  answered  Charley.  "  He  is  too 
light  to  be  hurt  from  falling.  The  only  danger  would 
be  that  he  might  break  those  pipe-stem  legs  of  his. 

We  call  them  Ms  p— p — pe what  is  it  that  we  do 

caH  them,  Wash?" 

"  Pedal  extremities,"  said  Wash. 

"  Yes,  that 's  it  —  pedal  extremities.  Are  n't  they 
specimens  of  legs,  Harry  ?  I  would  much  rather  have 
legs  than  to  have  all  his  book-learning,  myself." 

Charley  one  day  mentioned  Mr.  Hastings'  name  when 
talking  with  Harry,  and  they  were  each  surprised  to 
find  that  the  other  knew  him.  They  each  liked  Mr. 
Hastings ;  and  the  fact  of  his  being  a  friend  to  them 
both,  bound  them  more  closely  together  as  friends  than 
they  had  hitherto  been.  They  all  liked  each  other,  and 
were  as  happy  as  they  well  could  be  where  the  "  Gut- 
tural System "  pervaded  the  whole  atmosphere,  and 
entered  into  all  their  hours  of  study  and  recreation. 
Charley  generally  took  the  lead  in  conversation,  Dick 
in  declamation,  Wash  in  the  intricacies  of  book-knowl- 
edge, and  Harry  in  the  out-door  games  and  sports.  If 
one  had  any  thing  good  to  eat,  he  always  shared  it  with 
the  rest.  Every  thing  was  in  common. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 


HARRY  COLLINGWOOD  had  been  at  the  Babblington 
s*  ftool  more  than  a  year.  .Another  vacation  had  come, 
and  he,  together  with  Charley,  Dick,  and  Wash,  was  on 
the  qui  vive  of  excitement.  They  were,  by  the  consent 
of  their  respective  parents,  going  to  Dick's  father's,  dis- 
tant about  one  hundred  miles,  to  spend  the  interim  of 
their  studies.  The  coach  in  which  they  had  taken  pas- 
sage drove  up  on  the  first  day  of  vacation  in  front  of 
Mr.  Babblington's  house.  Charley  was  already  at  the 
door,  valise  in  hand,  waiting  for  it,  and  Harry  was  run- 
ning about  anxiously  trying  to  get  Wash  Smith  ready ; 
while  Dick  was  silently  preparing  his  own  personal 
effects  for  the  anticipated  visit.  As  the  coach  came  rat- 
tling up,  Charley  called  out  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  — 

"  Hurry  boys!  the  stage  is  here !  We  will  be  left  be- 
hind !  I  know  we  will !  I  '11  warrant  that  Dick  has  n't 
put  on  his  sky-blues  yet!  He  is  always  provokingly 
slow." 

The  three  ,boys  soon  came  running  down  stairs,  each 
carrying  a  carpet-bag  in  his  hand,  and  looking  as  lively 
and  joyous  as  possible.  Old  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Babblington 
moved  about  hurriedly,  assisting  the  boys  to  get  ready, 
and  arranging  every  thing  for  their  comfort  while  they 
should  be  absent.  The  old  couple  had  kind  hearts,  and 

(308) 


THE  CROOKED  ELM.  309 

liked  the  boys  very  much ;  besides,  they  felt  a  pride  in 
having  the  Babblington  school  well  represented  abroad. 
At  length,  after  receiving  an  embrace  from  old  Mrs. 
Babblington  and  being  kissed  all  round  by  her  skinny 
lips,  and  after  shaking  the  big,  fat  hands  of  old  Mr.  Bab- 
blington and  the  little  bony  fingers  of  Squeaking  Jimmy, 
the  young  hopefuls  seated  themselves  in  the  coach, 
drawn  by  four  horses,  and  were  rapidly  whirled-  away 
from  the  Babblington  school  and  the '  guttural  system. 
When  they  started  on  their  journey  there  were  no  other 
passengers  in  the  coach,  and  in  consequence  they  in- 
dulged freely  in  the  hilarities  which  the  occasion  in- 
spired. 

"  I  say,  Dick,"  commenced  Charley,  as  soon  as  they 
were  fairly  away  from  the  house,  "  how  do  you  like  old 
Mrs.  Babble's  lips  ?  She  kissed  you  twice,  and  the  rest 
of  us  but  once." 

Dick  protested  that  she  kissed  him  but  once. 

"  I  may  be  mistaken,"  said  Charley,  "  but  I  am  sure 
that  she  hugged  you  much  harder  and  longer  than  she 
did  any  of  us.  I  am  afraid  that  she  squeezed  all  the 
guttural  out  of  you." 

"  Was  n't  her  nose  cold  ?  "  said  Dick.  "  She  ran  the 
little  end  of  it  into  my  cheek." 

The  coach  rolled  rapidly  on,  and  they  were  fast  leav- 
ing the  village  behind.  They  looked  out  and  saw  the 
receding  houses,  and  commenced  crying  out :  — 

«  Good-by,  old  Babble  !  Good-by,  old  Mrs.  Babble ! 
Good-by,  Squeaking  Jimmy!  Good-by,  old  tomcat! 
Good-by  to  the  guttural  system  !  " 

"  There,"  said  Charley,  as  he  continued  looking  out 
of  the  window,  "  we  are  out  of  sight  of  them  ah1  now. 
Harry,  shall  we  give  three  cheers  for  old  Mrs.  Babble's 
sunshiny  nose  ?  " 

"  Charley,"  answered  Harry,  reprovingly,  "  you  ought 


310  THE  CROOKED  ELM*, 

not  to  make  fun  of  what  she  cannot  help.  She  is  a 
very  good  woman." 

"  True,"  said  Charley,  with  affected  seriousness,  "  it  is 
wrong.  She  would  have  a  nose  like  other  people,  if 
possible,  no  doubt ;  and  if  she  could  have  one  of  her 
own  choosing,  I  dare  say  she  would  take  one  that  was 
warm  at  the  little  end,  —  eh,  Dick  ?  " 

"  I  think,"  answered  Dick,  laughing,  "  that  old  Babble 
might  spare  her  a  piece  of  his,  and  not  miss  it.  Let  us 
give  three  cheers  for  old  Babble's  nose." 

Three  cheers  were  given,  according  to  Dick's  sugges- 
tion, for  the  old  dominie's  proboscis ;  and  on  they  went, 
as  full  of  glee  and  frolic  as  hopeful  parents  could  rea- 
sonably expect.  After  travelling  all  day  and  all  night 
they  arrived  at  Dick's  father's.  Mr.  Evans  was  an  itin- 
erant preacher,  and  travelled  on  what  he  called  a  cir- 
cuit ;  that  is,  preaching  one  day  in  one  neighborhood, 
and  the  next  day  in  an  adjoining  one,  and  so  on  until 
he  had  completed  his  circuit  and  returned  to  the  place 
whence  he  had  started.  In  this  way  he  would  address 
the  same  congregation  about  once  a  month. 

The  boys  had  been  at  Mr.  Evans's  about  a  week  when 
he  came  home.  He  greeted  them  heartily,  and  promised 
to  take  them  all  to  a  camp-meeting  then  being  held  in 
the  immediate  neighborhood.  None  of  them  had  ever 
been  to  such  a  place,  and  they  had  great  curiosity  to 
see  what  a  camp-meeting  was  like.  They  talked  of 
nothing  else,  scarcely,  until  the  morning  when  they  all 
set  out  in  a  large  two-horse  wagon  for  the  camp-ground. 
They  arrived  there  at  last,  and  the  four  hopefuls  were 
left  to  themselves  to  make  the.  most  of  their  time.  The 
camp,  as  it  was  called,  was  in  a  thick  wood.  In  one 
place  was  erected  a  platform,  made  of  loose  boards, 
over  which  was  spread  a  large  piece  of  canvas.  This 
was  the  preacher's  stand.  Around  and  near  it  were 


OR,  LIFE   BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  311 

many  small  tents,  some  made  of  logs,  others  of  canvas. 
In  front  of  the  stand  were  loose  boards,  benches,  etc., 
for  the  people  to  sit  upon  during  the  time  of  preach- 
ing. There  were  a  great  many  persons  present,  of  both 
sexes  and  of  all  ages.  Charley  and  his  party  wandered 
about,  looking  at  all  that  was  to  be  seen.  In  some  places 
they  saw  men  dealing  out  whiskey ;  at  others  they  were 
selling  green  corn,  watermelons,  cakes,  cigars,  snuff,  to- 
bacco, pumpkin  pies,  etc.,  etc.  There  seemed  to "%  a 
mixture  of  small  beer  and  religion,  whiskey-and  tracts, 
for  converting  the  heathen.  In  short,  the*  four  boys 
looked  upon  it  as  the  greatest  and  most  singular  meet- 
ing of  any  kind  that  they  had  ever  attended.  When 
they  had  looked  about  them  for  more  than  an  hour,  they 
saw  the  men  and  women  assembling  and  seating  them- 
selves on  the  benches.  They  followed  the  example  thus 
set  them  and  took  seats  together,  nearly  in  the  middle 
of  the  large  concourse  of  people.  They  had  not  been 
seated  long  when  a  large  man  rose  from  the  long  bench 
on  the  platform  and  commanded  silence.  While  he 
was  trying  to  obtain  quiet,  several  men  ascended  to  the 
platform,  and  seating  themselves  commenced  tying  large 
pocket  handkerchiefs  around  their  heads,  which  made 
them  look  something  Like  old  women,  and  something 
like  house  slaves  in  the  Southern  States.  When  the 
benches  were  all  filled,  and  quiet  had  been  restored,  the 
big  man  read  a  hymn,  and  then  re-read  it,  two  lines  at  a 
time,  and  the  multitude  sung  them  over  after  him  at  the 
top  of  then:  voices.  When  they  had  finished,  he  com- 
menced praying  in  a  loud  voice,  that  rivalled  even  the 
guttural  tones  of  old  Mr.  Babblington.  He  had  not 
been  praying  long  when  a  big  fat  man,  who  had  kneeled 
beside  Dick,  commenced  praying  in  a  very  loud  voice 
also,  to  the  utter  amazement  of  old  Mr.  Babblington's 
pupils ;  and,  before  the  preacher  had  half  finished  his 


312  THE   CROOKED   ELM  ; 

prayer,  at  least  a  dozen  men  and  women,  in  different 
parts  of  the  congregation,  were  shouting  and  clapping 
their  hands. 

"Dick,"  whispered  Charley,  "look  at  that  woman 
yonder." 

Dick  and  the  other  boys  looked  in  the  direction 
pointed  out  by  Charley,  and  saw  a  woman  jumping  up 
and  down,  clapping  her  hands,  and  shouting  in  a  shrill 
voic*  —  "  Glory  to  God !  Glory  to  God !  Praise  the 
Lord  !  Pr^se  the  Lord !  I  am  going  home !  " 

Her  crie  *  at  length  became  fainter  and  fainter,  until, 
seeming  to  go  off  into  a  regular  swoon,  she  was  carried 
out  of  the  crowd  by  two  men.  Other  women  soon 
commenced  shouting,  and  kept  it  up  until  the  preacher 
had  done  praying,  when  after  a  little  soothing  and 
loosening  of  waistcoat  strings  they  came  to  their  senses 
again,  and  the  preacher  took  a  text  and  preached  a  ser- 
mon. During  its  delivery  different  persons  kept  crying 
out,  —  "Praise  the  Lord!  Glory  to  God!  Amen! 
Lcyrd  grant  it !  "  The  four  boys  were  amazed  at  what 
they  saw  and  heard,  and  were  half  inclined  to  think  the 
people  crazy.  When  the  preacher  had  finished  his 
sermon  he  called  upon  one  of  the  men  with  a  handker- 
chief tied  round  his  head  to  pray ;  and  during  the  time 
of  his  prayer  the  people  shouted  and  prayed  as  they 
had  done  at  the  commencement  of  the  services.  The 
big  fat  man  by  Dick's  side  went  off,  as  others  had  gone 
off  before  him,  in  a  regular  shout.  He  seemed  to  have  ex- 
hausted every  other  word  except  Hallelujah;  but  he 
repeated  this  so  frequently  and  loud  that  he  drowned 
the  voices  of  all  the  other  shouters  in  his  immediate 
neighborhood.  He  clapped  his  thick,  fat  hands  contin- 
ually as  he  cried  Hallelujah,  and  finally,  from  sheer  ex- 
haustion and  from  over  exertion  in  the  heated  atmos- 
phere, he, too, rolled  off  his  seat  and  was  carried  from  the 


OR,  LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  313 

crowd  by  four  stout  men.  Charley,  taking  courage  at 
his  removal,  said,  "  Dick,  he  came  the  guttural  amaz- 
ingly! did  n't  he?" 

When  the  man  with  the  turban  had  finished  praying 
his  loud  prayer,  and  the  shouters  had  shouted  all  their 
strength  away,  a  man  in  the  audience  commenced  sing- 
ing in  a  loud,  shrill  voice,  — 

"  Oh  won't  you  go  to  glory  -with  me  ? 
Oh,  glory,  hallelujah! 
If  you  get  there  before  I  do  — 
Oh  glory,  hallelujah ! 
Just  tell  them  I  am  coming  too  — 
Oh  glory,  hallelujah!" 

When  he  had  finished  singing  a  long  string  of  verses 
similar  to  the  one  I  have  quoted,  the  man  who  had 
preached  the  sermon  stood  up  and  said :  — 

"During  the  time  of  intermission,  the  brethren  will 
please  keep  their  feet  off  the  benches.  I  have  always 
noticed,"  continued  he,  "that  those  having  the  larger 
and  muddiest  feet  are  the  ones  who  walk  on  the  ladies' 
seats."  Charley,  Harry,  Dick,  and  Wash,  who  were  stand- 
ing on  a  seat  at  the  time,  dropped  from  it  as  quickly 
though  they  had  been  shot.  "  The  ladies,"  continued 
the  preacher,  "if  they  have  occasion  to  go  into,  the 
woods,  will  please  go  to  the  left  of  the  camp,"-^- 
pointing  his  finger  in  the  direction,  — "  and  the  gentle- 
men will  go  to  the  right.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  no 
gentleman  will  break  over  this  regulation  and  annoy  the 
ladies  who  have  occasion  to  visit  the  woods.  The 
brethren  will  do  well  also  to  keep  away  from  the  liquor 
stands ;  for  they  are  the  temptations  of  Satan.  During 
the  intermission  there  will  be  a  revival  prayer-meeting 
for  the  conversion  of  sinners  in  brother  Pundleton's  tent, 
27 


314  THE   CROOKED    ELM; 

and  also  in  brother  Muddlehead's  tent.  It  is  hoped 
that  the  praying  brethren  will  be  there,  as  there  is  a 
mighty  work  to  be  done  in  this  place.  The  boys  will 
take  care  not  to  make  a  noise  on  the  camp-ground,  or 
smoke  tobacco  in  the  tent,  especially  during  the  time 
of  prayer."  When  the  preacher  had  made  these  an- 
nouncements, the  people  dispersed,  some  to  go  to  the 
fruit,  cake,  and  liquor  stands,  and  some  to  go  into  the 
woods,  both  to  the  right  and  to  the  left  of  the  camp- 
ground. The  whole  scene  was  a  novel  one  to  old  Mr. 
Babblington's  pupils.  They  never  had  dreamed  that 
camp-meetings  were  such  queer  places.  As  they 
walked  away,  Dick  said :  — 

"  Charley,  why  did  he  tell  the  men  to  go  into  the 
woods  at  the  right,  and  the  women  to  go  to  the  left  of 
the  camp-grpund  ?  " 

Charley  thought  a  moment,  but,  unable  to  answer  the 
question,  said :  — 

"  Wash,  what  did  he  mean  ?  " 

"  I  suppose,"  answered  Wash,  "  that  he  meant  that 
the  women  should  go  one  way  to  eat  their  luncheons 
and  the  men  the  other." 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  that  was  it,"  said  Charley. 
"  Let  us  go  to  the  right  and  eat  ours." 

They  did  as  Charley  suggested,  and  soon  returned  to 
the  camp-ground  again.  They  looked  into  the  tents 
where  they  were  holding  prayer-meetings,  and  saw  men 
and  women  jumping  up  and  down,  shouting  at  the  top 
of  their  lungs.  Some  were  praying  for  a  revival,  others 
for  the  heathen,  and  still  others  for  the  conversion  of  the 
world.  General  confusion  prevailed.  Big,  burly  men 
lay  on  their  backs  shouting,  — "  Glory  to  God ! " 
Women,  —  mothers  of  families,  lay  in  the  arms  of  men, 
and  clapped  their  hands  and  cried,  —  "  Glory  to  God ! " 


OR,   LIFE    BY  THE   WAT-SIDE.  315 

Night  came  at  last,  and  the  babel  of  sounds  that 
reigned  during  the  day  was  increased.  Shouts,  yells, 
praying,  preaching,  fighting,  and  drunkenness  mingled 
together  in  one  unharmonious  whole.  The  boys  were 
glad  to  get  back  home  again.  They  had  seen  a  regular 
camp-meeting,  —  one  similar,  no  doubt,  to  those  you 
may  have  witnessed,  reader,  in  the  Middle  and  Western 
States.  I  do  not  wish  to  denounce  the  motives  of  those 
who  originate  these  camp-meetings,  but  I  have  no  faith 
in  the  utility  of  the  meetings  themselves.  They  tend 
rather  to  bring  religion  into  disgrace,  and  to  perpetuate 
a  system  of  things  but  a  little  way  removed  from  bar- 
barism. The  boys  returned  to  school,  after  remaining  at 
Mr.  Evans's  about  two  weeks.  Their  visit  was  filled 
with  incidents,  new  and  amusing,  and  they  had  learned 
more  of  the  ways  of  the  world  in  this  short  time,  than 
they  would  have  done  in  a  year  at  the  Babblington 
School.  A  few  nights  after  they  had  got  back,  they  all 
assembled  in  Charley's  room.  Each  tried  to  surpass 
the  other  in  ludicrous  descriptions  of  what  they  had 
witnessed  at  the  camp-meeting. 

"  I  say,  Harry,"  said  Charley,  "wouldn't  you  like  to 
see  old  Babble  shouting?  Wouldn't  he  make  a  stir  in 
a  small  crowd !  Only  think,  what  a  noise  he  would 
make !  Lord !  —  would  n't  he  make  the  tallest  kind  of 
a  shouter !  He  is  religious,  too  !  May  be  he  will  give 
us  a  turn  some  of  these  days.  Wash  says  it  is  religion 
that  makes  people  shout,  and  Wash  knows.  I  should 
like  to  see  old  Mrs.  Babble  at  camp-meeting,  and  hear 
her  shout,  and  see  her  lying  in  the  arms  of  two  or  three 
men.  Wouldn't  her  squeaky  voice  make  them  stare! 
And  then,  only  think  of  her  jumping  into  the  air! 
Wouldn't  her  pedal  extremities  show  to  advantage! 
I  fancy  I  see  her  now,  with  her  hair  all  flying,  and  her 
dress  unhooked,  just  like  the  woman  we  saw.  Wouldn't 


316  THE   CROOKED   ELM  J 

she  be  a  picture'     I  should  like  to  see  her  sit  cross- 
legged  and  sing :  — 

"  Satan's  kingdom's  coming  down,  — 
O  glory,  hallelujah  ! " 

Dick,  can't  you  sing  that  funny  hymn  ?  " 

Dick  took  the  corner,  and  rolling  his  eyes  up  towards 
the  ceiling  in  imitation  of  those  whom  he  had  seen 
sing  at  the  camp-meeting,  commenced  singing  in  a  loud 
voice :  — 

"  Where  now  is  the  good  old  Daniel  ?  — 
Safe  in  the  promised  land." 

When  he  had  finished  a  long  string  of  verses,  Charley 
commenced  clapping  his  hands,  and  finally  fell  into 
Wash  Smith's  lap,  seemingly  exhausted.  Dick  was  a 
natural  mimic,  and  it  was  a  long  time  before  he  ceased 
to  amuse  the  boys  by  imitating  what  might  probably 
be  called  the  peculiarities  of  the  camp-meeting. 

There  was  a  large  pond  of  water  near  the  Babbling- 
ton  school,  in  which  all  the  boys,  numbering,  as  I  have 
before  said,  about  thirty,  used  to  swim  nearly  every 
afternoon.  Old  Mr.  Babblington's  four  pupils  used  to 
go  into  the  pond  at  the  same  time  that  the  other  boys 
did;  but  they  always  kept  some  distance  away  from 
them.  One  day,  as  they  were  all  in  the  pond,  a  large 
boy  swam  up  to  Wash  Smith  and  put  him  under 
water.  He  was  much  larger  than  Wash,  and  could 
handle  him  as  he  pleased.  Harry  saw  him  amusing 
himself  at  Wash's  expense,  and,  swimming  up  to  them, 
told  the  large  boy  to  let  Wash  alone.  He  took  no 
notice,  however,  of  what  Harry  said,  but  plunged  young 
Smith  under  the  water  again.  Harry  was  no  longer 
able  to  remain  a  spectator,  but  seizing  hold  of  the  boy 


OR,  LIFE   BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  317 

struggled  to  put  him  under  the  water,  and  finally  suc- 
ceeded in  doing  so ;  but  as  soon  as  the  large  boy  came 
to  the  top  he  caught  hold  of  Harry  determinedly,  and 
the  struggle  was  continued  fiercer  than  ever.  Again 
Harry  succeeded  in  putting  him  under.  When  the  boy 
came  to  the  top  the  second  time,  puffing  and  blowing, 
he  said :  — 

"  I  will  attend  to  you  when  you  go  on  shore." 

"  Just  as  you  like,"  answered  Harry. 

When  they  had  dressed  themselves  and  were  return- 
ing to  school,  the  large  boy  approached  Harry  and  struck 
nim.  Harry  returned  the  blow,  and  gave  the  boy  a  sound 
thrashing.  The  other  boys  gathered  around  to  see  the 
result  of  the  fight,  and  were  much  pleased  to  see  Harry 
come  off  best.  They  disliked  the  large  boy,  for  he  was 
overbearing  and  rough  with  them  all,  especially  to  those 
who  were  physically  his  inferiors.  This  incident  made 
Harry  quite  a  lion  among  them  all,  and  made  Wash 
Smith  love  him  with  all  his  heart  for  taking  his  part  so 
gallantly.  Charley  declared  that  he  should  always  think 
more  of  Harry  after  that.  "  For,"  said  he,  "  that  impu- 
dent George  Jones  domineers  over  us  as  much  as 
though  he  had  a  right  to  do  so.  Didn't  you  make  him 
howl,  though ! " 

Wash  Smith  never  forgot  this  generous  conduct  of 
Harry's,  and  often  did  he  afterwards  assist  him  in  some 
of  his  more  difficult  studies.  I  will  now  leave  Master 
Harry  with  his  three  companions,  who  love  him  dearly, 
and  with  his  school-fellows ;  who  have  made  him  quite  a 
hero  since  his  victory  over  George  Jones,  while  I  return 
to  another  branch  of  this  story. 

27* 


CHAPTER    XXV. 


"  PAPA,  why  don't  everybody  speak  English  ?  " 
"  I  don't  know,  my  child.     Why  do  you  ask  ?  " 
"  Then  we  would  n't  have  to  study  so  much  to  learn 
how  to  talk  to  people." 

"  But  don't  you  like  to  study,  Flora?" 
"  Oh,  yes.      I   like   to  study  very  much ;   but  Miss 
Lishman  says  there  are  a  great  many  languages,  and 
that  it  would  take  a  great  while  to  learn  them.     She  says 
she  don't  know  them  all." 

"  It  is  not  necessary  to  learn  all  the  languages,  child." 
"  Is  n't  it  ?    I  thought  I  would  have  to  learn  them  all." 
"  There   are   several   hundred  languages   altogether, 
Flora." 

"  Oh,  dear!  I  never  thought  there  were  so  many 
before.  Are  they  all  as  easy  to  learn  as  French  and 
Italian,  papa  ?  " 

"Some  of  them  are,  but  not  all." 
"  If  they  were  as  easy,  I  could  soon  learn  them ;  for 
Miss  Lishman  says  that  I  will  soon  be  able  to  speak 
both  French  and  Italian  well." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so ;  for  when  you  grow 
up  you  may  travel  in  foreign  countries,  and  then  it  will 
be  pleasant  for  you  to  be  able  to  converse  with  the  peo- 
ple you  meet,  and  to  read  their  language." 

(818) 


THE    CROOKED    ELM.  319 

"  I  should  like  to  go  to  Italy,  papa,  for  Miss  Lishman 
says  they  have  beautiful  sunshiny  weather  and  pleasant 
skies  there.  I  should  like  such  a  country." 

"  Perhaps  you  may  go  there,  some  time." 

"  Do  boys  study  French  and  Italian,  papa  ?  " 

"  Yes,  darling.     Why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"  Oh !  I  thought  it  would  be  pleasant  some  time  to 
write  Harry  a  letter  in  French.  Do  you  think  Harry 
will  study  French  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,  child." 

"  Perhaps  he  is  studying  French  now.    Who  knows  ?  " 

"  It  is  time  to  go  to  bed,  Flora ;  it  is  growing  late." 

"  Bon  nuit,  mon  chere  pere  !  " 

As  little  Flora  said  this,  she  put  her  arms  round 
Moulton's  neck  and  kissed  him;  then,  taking  a  candle, 
she  went  to  her  bedroom. 

Moulton  had  employed  Miss  Lishman,  an  excellent 
teacher  and  governess,  to  superintend  Flora's  education. 
Flora  was  learning  rapidly  every  day.  New  ideas,  new 
views  of  things,  were  finding  a  lodgement  in  her  young 
and  susceptible  mind.  One  day,  as  Flora  and  her 
teacher  were  sitting  in  the  room  set  apart  for  study 
busily  engaged  with  some  needle-work,  the  following 
conversation  took  place :  — 

"  Miss  Lishman,  did  you  ever  love  a  little  boy  when 
you  were  young  ?  " 
.    <<Why,  Flora?" 

>*  I  thought  you  had,  may  be ;  you  sometimes  look  so 
sorry." 

"  Do  you  think  all  people  who  look  sad  love  little 
boys?" 

"  I  don't  know ;  but  I  think  they  would  be  sad 
if  they  loved  them  very  much,  and  had  to  leave  them." 

"  But  they  don't  all  have  to  leave  them." 

"  You  did,  though,  did  n't  you,  Miss  Lishman  ?  " 


320  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

«  What  makes  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Why,  if  you  had  not  left  him  he  would  have  mar- 
ried you,  if  he  loved  you.  Harry  always  told  me  he 
would  marry  me,  and  I  am  sure  if  a  little  boy  had  loved 
you,  he  would  have  married  you,  when  you  grew  to  be 
big." 

"  But  boys  are  not  all  alike,  Flora.  They  may  not  all 
be  as  good  as  your  Harry." 

"  I  don't  think  they  are.  I  never  thought  of  that  be- 
fore. Did  the  little  boy  you  loved,  Miss  Lishman,  look 
like  Harry  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  said  that  I  ever  loved  a  little  boy,  Flora. 
Besides,  I  never  have  seen  your  Harry." 

"  Oh,  this  looks  just  like  him,"  said  Flora,  as  she  took 
Harry's  likeness  from  her  bosom  and  showed  it  to  Miss 
Lishman.  "  This  is  just  like  Harry, —  his  hair,  his  face, 
his  eyes,  his  mouth  —  every  thing !  Was  your  little 
boy  as  handsome  as  that  ?  " 

"  You  forget,  Flora,  that  I  have  not  said  that  I  ever 
loved  a  little  boy." 

"  I  think  you  have,  though.  I  think  everybody  ought 
to  like  the  little  boys.  You  are  very  good,  Miss  Lish- 
man, and  I  am  sure  you  liked  them  when  you  were 
little." 

"  But  do  you  like  all  little  boys,  Flora  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  I  only  Like  Harry.  Mr.  Simpson's  boy, 
who  comes  here  sometimes,  I  don't  like  him,  —  I  don't 
see  how  anybody  could  like  him." 

"  May  be  all  the  boys  whom  I  knew  when  I  was  little 
were  like  Mr.  Simpson's  boy." 

«  I  don't  think  they  could  all  be  as  bad.  Why,  he 
pinches  the  cats  and  dogs,  and  I  saw  him  yesterday 
pulling  the  legs  off  of  flies.  Oh,  no  !  I  am  sure  there  are 
not  many  boys  as  bad  as  he." 

"  Well,  Flora,  we  will  not  talk  longer  now  about  the 


OR,  LIFE   BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  321 

little  boys.  It  is  almost  time  for  me  to  hear  your 
Italian." 

"  I  have  translated  all  you  gave  me.  Shall  I  get  my 
book  now  ? '.' 

**  Yes,  get  it,  and  I  will  hear  you  recite  the  lesson." 

Flora  got  her  book,  and  the  two  seated  themselves 
together,  and  read  their  morning  lesson. 

One  day,  in  the  middle  of  summer,  Moulton,  with 
Flora  and  Miss  Lishmaii,  took  a  long  walk.  They  fol- 
lowed the  road  leading  out  through  the  little  French 
village,  in  the  direction  of  Montmorency  Falls.  As  they 
walked  along  through  the  village,  numerous  small  and 
ragged  children  surrounded  them  and  begged  for  money. 
Flora  had  never  been  that  road  before,  nor  had  she  ever 
seen  children  begging.  At  first  she  feared  them,  and 
kept  close  to  Moulton  ;  but  when  she  saw  how  destitute 
they  were  of  clothing  she  wished  to  give  them  some- 
thing. She  told  Moulton  so,  and  he  gave  her  a  handful 
of  pennies,  which  she  distributed  freely  among  them. 
When  she  had  given  them  all  the  money  she  had, 
they  bowed  and  curtsied,  and  thanked  her  over  and  over 
again. 

"  Merci,  merci,  petite  Mademoiselle ! "  was  spoken  by 
at  least  a  dozen  of  the  half-clad  urchins  that  surrounded 
her. 

"  Those  are  very  good  children,  are  they  not,  papa  ?  " 
asked  Flora,  as  soon  as  they  had  got  a  little  way  from 
the  beggar  children. 

"  I  presume  they  are,"  answered  he ;  "  but  they  ought 
to  be  taught  something  mdffe  respectable  than  begging 
in  the  streets." 

"  But  they  are  poor,  papa.     I  pity  poor  children." 

"  That  is  right,  Flora.  We  should  pity  and  assist  all 
poor  children ;  but  they  should  be  taught  to  be  industri- 
ous, and  then  they  would  grow  up  knowing  how  to 


322  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

work,  and  provide  food  and  clothing  for  themselves. 
They  would  then  become  useful  and  good  people  in  so- 
ciety." 

"  Perhaps  they  have  no  fathers  and  mothers  to  teach 
them,  papa.  Do  you  think  they  are  not  good  children  ?  " 

"  I  presume  they  are  very  good.  Their  fathers  and 
mothers  are  to  blame  for  letting  them  grow  up  in  idle- 
ness. But  we  must  cross  the  fields  here,"  said  Moul- 
ton,  "  the  '  Natural  Steps '  are  in  those  woods  you  see 
yonder.  Are  you  not  too  tired  to  go  to  them,  Flora  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no !  I  am  not  a  bit  tired.  I  wish  very  much  to 
see  the  '  Natural  Steps.'  Miss  Lishman  says  they  are 
very  pretty." 

They  then  turned  into  the  fields,  and  Flora,  with  Miss 
Lishman,  ran  about  from  place  to  place,  gathering 
flowers  and  admiring  every  thing  new  which  she  saw. 
Flora  was  full  of  life  and  spirits.  She  liked  the  country, 
for  it  was  there  she  had  spent  so  many  happy  hours. 
They  soon  reached  the  great  curiosity.  A  little  stream 
dashing  down  through  the  rocks,  and  filled  with  white 
foam,  lay  before  them ;  on  its  banks  were  shelving  rocks, 
so  gradual  and  regular  in  their  ascent  from  the  stream, 
that  they  resembled  a  regularly  constructed  stair.  Flora 
ran  about  from  rock  to  rock  in  the  wild  wooded  place, 
with  all  the  gayety  and  friskiness  of  a  young  kid.  She 
was  glad  to  get  the  fresh  air.  The  charming  wildness 
of  the  scenery  enchanted  her  young  mind. 

"  Look  there,  Miss  Lishman !  See  how  prettily  the 
water  dashes  down  through  those  rocks !  How  easy 
these  steps  are  to  climb !  I  can  run  up  them."  As  she 
said  this,  she  ran  away  over  the  gradually  rising  stones 
to  show  Miss  Lishman  and  Moulton  how  easily  she 
could  climb  them.  They  remained  some  time  in  the 
woods,  and  then  started  to  return  to  the  city.  As  they 
passed  back  through  the  French  village,  the  little  boys 


OR,   LIFE   BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  323 

and  girls  among  whom  Flora  had  distributed  her  money 
BO  bounteously  gathered  around  her  and  gave  her 
bouquets  and  flowers  of  various  kinds.  She  accepted 
their  gifts,  and  thanked  them.  The  children  looked 
pleased  and  happy  as  they  saw  her  walk  away  with 
her  hands  filled  with  the  flowers  they  had  gathered  pur- 
posely for  her  —  an  evidence  that  even  little  beggar- 
children  are  not  destitute  of  human  hearts.  Flora  car- 
ried her  flowers  home  and  kept  them  in  water  as  long 
as  she  could,  and  never  has  she  forgotten  the  touching 
little  incident  between  herself  and  the  beggar-children  of 
the  little  French  village.  Flora  still  remembered  her 
grandpapa  and  her  old  friend  Rover ;  but  as  she  grew 
older  her  recollection  of  them  became  more  and  more 
indistinct.-  They  had  an  existence  in  her  mind;  but 
they  were  like  the  memory  of  a  half-forgotten  dream. 
She  recollected  the  little  mound  where  Rover  was 
buried,  and  many  other  things  connected  with  her  old 
home ;  but  the  time  when  she  had  lived  with  her -grand- 
papa seemed  a  long  way  back  in  the  past.  Since  she 
had  been  in  Quebec,  she  had  made  the  acquaintance  of 
a  little  girl  of  the  name  of  Eunice  Demerge.  Eunice's 
parents  were  French.  She  had  black  hair  and  eyes, 
and  a  very  pretty  face.  In  looks  she  was  almost  Flora's 
opposite;  yet,  the  girls  liked  each  other  very  much, 
and  were  together  a  great  deal.  M.  Demerge  was  a 
man  of  wealth,  and  had  but  the  one  child.  He  indulged 
her  in  all  her  wants,  and  took  great  pains  with  her  edu- 
cation. When  Flora  commenced  studying  French, 
Eunice  assisted  her ;  and,  when  Flora  had  learned  more 
of  the  language,  they  would  often  sit  together  for  hours 
conversing  in  French.  In  this  way  Flora  learned  to 
speak  French  with  a  correctness  of  accent  and  pronun- 
ciation seldom  acquired  outside  of  Paris.  Eunice  was 


324  THE   CKOOKED   ELM  J 

impulsive,  generous,  and  kind-hearted,  and  generally 
took  the  lead  in  all  their  studies  and  amusements.  One 
day  when  Flora  had  gone  to  see  Eunice,  who  lived  but 
a  few  doors  away,  the  following  conversation  took  place 
while  walking  in  the  flower-garden.  They  talked  in 
French. 

"  Flora,  run  here  and  see  this  provence  rose !  It  is  just 
budding.  Does  n't  it  look  beautiful  ?  " 

"  How  pretty !  "  exclaimed  Flora. 

"  I  will  get  mamma  to  make  me  a  wreath  of  them  to 
wear  to-morrow  night.  But  would  n't  you  like  to  wear 
them,  Flora?" 

"  No,  Eunice,  I  shall  like  so  much  to  see  them  in  your 
hair.  They  will  look  so  pretty  with  that  maize-colored 
dress." 

"  But  I  had  rather  you  would  wear  them,  Flora. 
They  look  so  sweet ! " 

"  But  you  know,  Eunice,  that  I  am  going  to  wear 
the  wreath  of  forget-me-nots." 

"  Well,  Flora,  if  you  won't  wear  them,  I  suppose  I 
must,  though  I  had  much  rather  you  would." 

There  was  going  to  be  a  children's  party  at  M. 
Demere're's  the  next  night  to  celebrate  Eunice's  birth- 
day. Eunice  and  Flora  had  talked  of  it  for  weeks,  and 
had  made  great  preparations  for  celebrating  so  important 
an  event.  The  time  came  at  last,  and  the  little  folks, 
numbering  thirty  or  forty  in  all,  assembled  in  M.  Deme- 
re're's drawing-room.  Eunice,  with  her  maize-colored 
crape  dress,  and  a  wreath  made  of  provence  rose-buds, 
moved  about  among  her  young  companions,  the  ob- 
served of  all.  Flora,  in  a  simple  white  muslin  dress, 
and  with  a  wreath  of  forget-me-nots  entwined  with  her 
rich  auburn  hair,  rivalled  the  beauty  of  her.  generous 
friend,  and  attracted  many  admiring  eyes  by  the  sim- 


OR,   LIFE  BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  325 

plicity  of  her  manners  and  the  loveliness  of  her  sweet 
face.  Eunice  introduced  Flora  to  all  her  little  friends, 
and  soon  they  mingled  together  in  the  merry  mazes  of 
the  dance.  Eunice  and  Flora  led  off  with  two  of  the 
rosiest  faced  boys,  and  the  others  followed,  and  soon  all 
was  life,  merriment,  and  glee.  After  dancing  and  enjoy- 
ing themselves  generally  until  a  late  hour,  the  party 
broke  up,  and  the  little  girls  and  boys  separated  for  their 
respective  homes,  —  all  proud  of  the  characters  they  had 
individually  personated  in  celebrating  little  Eunice's 
birthday.  Flora  had  enjoyed  it  immensely,  and  had 
taken  pride  in  making  it  as  pleasant  a  party  as  she 
could,  for  the  sake  of  her  much-loved  friend.  Not 
many  days  after  the  party,  Eunice  and  Flora  were 
sitting  on  the  piazza  at  the  back  of  M.  Demereire's 
house,  when  the  following  conversation  took  place :  — 

"  Don't  you  think,  Flora,  that  Willie  Delano  is  very 
handsome  ?  " 

"  I  think  he  is  very  good  looking ;  but  he  is  n't  so 
handsome  as  Harry." 

"None  of  them  were  as  handsome  as  your  Harry; 
but,  don't  you  think  he  was  better  looking  than  any  of 
the  other  boys  at  the  party  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  is  good  looking,  Eunice." 

"  But,  don't  you  think  he  is  handsome  ?  not  handsome 
like  your  Harry ;  but  very  handsome  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  he  is." 

Eunice,  try  all  she  would,  could  not  get  Flora  to 
speak  much  in  praise  of  Willie.  There  was  but  one 
handsome  boy  in  her  estimation,  and  that  was  the  one 
whose  image  she  wore  next  her  heart. 

"  I  should  Eke  to  see  your  Harry,  Flora.     Do  you 
think  he  will  ever  come  here  to  see  you  ?  " 
28 


326  THE   CROOKED   ELM, 

"  I  think  not,  for  he  don't  know  where  I  am." 

"  But  won't  you  ever  tell  him  where  you  are  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  ;  perhaps  papa  would  n't  like  to  have 
me  write  to  him." 

"  How  queer ! "  exclaimed  Eunice.  "  I  should  think 
he  would  like  to  have  you  write  to  so  good  a  boy.  I 
know  I  shall  like  him  if  I  ever  see  him." 

"  I  know  you  will,"  said  Flora,  with  eyes  sparkling 
"  He  is  —  oh !  such  a  fine  boy ! " 

"  When  you  marry  Harry,  won't  you  come  and  live 
here,  Flora?  It  will  be  so  nice!  I  will  go  .and  stay 
with  you  all  day,  and  we  will  have  so  much  fun !  We 
will  have  parties,  and  we  will  —  oh,  I  don't  know  what 
we  won't  have ! " 

"  I  shall  like  to  have  you  live  with  us,  Eunice,  it  will 
be  so  pleasant.  We  will  get  up  every  morning  and 
work  in  the  garden,  and  we  will  have  such  a  nice  gar- 
den and  such  beautiful  flowers  ;  and  we  will  have  every 
thing  so  nice  !  won't  we  ?  Harry  is  very  fond  of  flow- 
ers, and  he  always  said  he  would  build  such  a  beautiful 
house !  Yes,  Eunice,  you  must  live  with  us." 

Thus  did  the  two  little  girls,  in  the  innocence  of  their 
own  pure  thoughts,  talk  for  hours.  Their  young  minds 
run  together  as  one.  All  their  pleasures  and  troubles 
were  shared.  Being  thus  together  every  day,  they  nat- 
urally formed  like  tastes  and  like  habits.  Moulton  did 
not  try  to  break  off  their  intimacy.  He  saw  how  much 
attached  they  were,  and  he  was  glad  that  Flora  had  one 
near  her  own  age  to  play  and  amuse  herself  with. 

I  have  given  the  reader  an  inside  view  of  what  little 
Flora  was  doing  during  the  first  few  months  of  her  stay 
in  Quebec.  I  will  now  draw  the  curtain  and  leave  her 
with  her  friend  Eunice,  together  with  Moulton  and  her 
governess,  to  continue  on  in  the  path  of  life  which  she 


OR,  LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  327 

has  just  entered  upon.  Before  her  are  flowers  and  sun- 
shine. Her  young  imagination  pictures  a  future,  rain- 
bow-tinted and  beautiful  as  the  gossamer  webs  of  a 
delightful  romance.  Let  no  one  disturb  her  dreams  of 
happiness. 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 


EVER  since  Flora  had  been  stolen  away  from  her 
grandpapa's,  as  she  always  called  the  old  man,  but  whom 
we  will  know  in  future  as  Mr.  Rivington,  Hastings 
had  tried  to  ascertain  where  Moulton  was,  and  through 
him  learn  what  had  been  done  with  the  little  girl.  All 
his  efforts  to  find  him,  however,  or  learn  any  thing  of  her 
more  than  what  Belmonte  had  told  him,  were  unsuccess- 
ful. He  felt  continually  that  he  had  been  instrumental 
in  doing  the  old  man  a  great  wrong — a  wrong  that  was 
irreparable.  A  few  weeks  after  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Belmonte 
had  sailed  for  Europe,  Hastings  was  seated  in  his  office 
brooding  over  the  desponding  thoughts  which  filled  and 
troubled  his  mind.  He  never  before  had  felt  so  deeply 
guilty.  "  I  have  driven  Cornelia  from  her  home  and 
friends,  ^nd  have  made  her  life  wretched,"  thought  he. 
"  I  am  steeped  in  crime  of  all  descriptions,  and  deserve 
to  be  punished.  I  have  lent  myself  to  the  wicked  plots 
of  Belmonte,  and  have  robbed  Mr.  Rivington  of  his 
grandchild  — perhaps  have  murdered  her ;  I  am  more  and 
more  convinced  every  day  that  she  was  killed.  Horrible 
thought !  I  must  know  more  of  this ;  and,  if  my  suspi- 
cions are  well  founded,  I  will  give  a  true  statement  of  the 
facts  to  the  public,  and  answer  the  heinous  crime  with 
my  worthless  life.  I  will  not  rest  until  I  have  investi- 
agted  this  wicked  deed  to  the  extent  of  my  ability.  I 

(328) 


THE   CROOKED   ELM.  329 

will  go  to  old  Mr.  Rivington's,  and  learn  all  the  facts  con- 
nected with  their  finding  the  child  in  the  river." 

In  accordance  with  this  resolution,  he  set  out  early 
the  next  morning  for  Mr.  Rivington's.  He  found  the 
old  man  in  his  garden  watering  some  flowers,  and  im- 
mediately introduced  himself  as  Belmonte's  friend.  The 
old  man  was  glad  to  see  him ;  for,  as  we  have  already 
learned,  he  loved  his  nephew,  and  believed  him  to  be  his 
best  friend. 

"  I  was  passing  here,  Mr.  Rivington,"  said  Hastings, 
"  and  thought  I  would  drop  in  a  moment  and  see  how 
you  were  getting  along.  You  have  a  fine  garden  of 
flowers.  Do  you  cultivate  them  yourself?" 

"  Yes,  I  spend  many  of  my  idle  hours  here.     It  is 

almost  the  only  recreation  I  have.     I  am  very  fond  of 

•  flowers ;  and  I  like  to  be  out  in  the  morning  air,  looking 

after  and  tending  them.     I  do  not  trust  the  servants  in 

here.     I  prefer  watering  and  taking  care  of  them  myself." 

Hastings  looked  attentively  at  the  benevolent  and 
good  countenance  of  the  old  man,  and  his  conscience 
more  than  ever  smote  him  for  what  he  had  done. 

"  I  think  you  do  right,"  said  Hastings,  "  to  look  after 
the  flowers  yourself.  It  gives  you  health  and  pleasant 
employment."  As  he  said  this  he  turned  away  from 
the  old  man  to  admire  a  bed  of  beautiful  verbenas,  helio- 
tropes, and  forget-me-nots.  "  This  is  a  beautiful  bed  of 
flowers,  Mr.  Rivington." 

«  Yes,"  replied  he,  "that  was  little  Flora's  bed  before 
she  died.  I  have  kept  it  just  as  it  was  when  she  used 
to  water  and  tend  it  herself." 

"  Little  Flora ! "  queried  Hastings,  "  how  strange !     I 

have  helped  to  rob  him  of  a  little  girl,  and  her  name  was 

Flora.  I  too  have  been  robbed  of  a  child,  and  its  name  was 

Flora.     It  was  murdered — perhaps  his  Flora  was  too." 

28* 


330  THE  CROOKED   ELM; 

For  a  moment  his  emotions,  at  thus  suddenly  and 
strangely  being  reminded  of  the  death  of  his  child,  ren- 
dered him  unable  to  speak.  He  turned  away  an  in- 
stant to  conceal  his  feelings,  and  then  said :  — 

"  You  must  have  loved  your  little  grandchild  very 
much  to  take  such  care  of  what  belonged  to  her." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  old  man,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  "  I 
did  love  her  very  much.  She  was  a  sweet,  dear  child. 
I  never  can  reconcile  myself  to  her  loss." 

"  She  was  drowned,  I  believe  ?  " 

«  Yes  —  the  little  angel ! " 

"  She  was  your  grandchild  ?  " 

"No!  She  always  called  me  grandpapa,  and  was 
thought,  by  most  who  knew  her,  to  be  my  grandchild; 
but  she  was  not  related  to  me,  except  by  the  ties  which 
love  makes." 

"  I  had  always  supposed  that  she  was  your  grand- 
child?" 

"  No,  she  was  not." 

"  May  I  ask  how  you  came  to  know  her  ?  You  have 
interested  me  in  her.  I  was  told  of  her  death  at  the 
time  it  took  place.  It  must  have  been  a  sore  trial  to  you." 

,"  I  have  as  yet  told  no  one  her  history,  and  you  must 
excuse  me,  Mr.  Hastings,  for  declining  to  tell  it  to  you." 

"  I  will  not  press  you  to  tell  me  her  life,  —  she  found 
in  you  a  benefactor  and  a  father ;  and  you  doubtless 
have  good  reasons  for  keeping  her  history  locked  up  in 
your  own  bosom.  I  cannot  tell  why,  but  you  have  ex- 
cited in  me  a  curiosity  to  learn  more  of  her.  Perhaps 
it  is  because  I  once  lost  a  child,  a  little  babe,  whose 
name  was  Flora.  I  loved  it  very  much,  and  your  men- 
tion of  the  name  excited  my  curiosity." 

The  old  man  looked  anxiously  at  Hastings,  and  said: — 

"  Of  what  did  your  child  die  ?  " 


OR,   LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  331 

"  I  do  not  know  —  but  presume  that  it  was  mur- 
dered." 

«  What !    Murdered  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Hastings ;  "  I  have  every  reason  to  be- 
lieve that  it  was  murdered." 

The  old  man's  curiosity  was  now  excited.  There 
was  something  mysterious  in  what  Hastings  had  said. 

"  I  do  not  wish,"  said  he,  "  to  intrude  myself  upon 
your  private  feelings,  yet  you  have  excited  in  me  a  wish 
to  know  how  your  child  was  killed." 

"  Sit  down  here,  Mr.  Rivington,"  said  Hastings,  "  and 
I  will  tell  you  all  I  know  of  my  child's  death." 

Hastings,  in  deciding  to  gratify  the  old  man  by  telling 
him  the  story  of  his  murdered  child,  thought  that  in 
doing  so  he  might  so  much  gain  his  confidence  as  to 
learn  from  him  more  of  the  particulars  of  the  child 
whom  Moulton  and  Belmonte  had  stolen  away.  He 
therefore  entered  into  all  the  details  of  his  wife's  death, 
and  the  disappearance  of  his  child.  When  he  had 
finished,  the  old  man  asked  eagerly  what  year  these 
strange  events  had  taken  place." 

"  They  occurred  in  the  spring  of  18 — ,"  answered 
Hastings. 

The  old  man  was  now  more  excited  than  before,  and 
asked  with  a  quivering  lip:  "Is  there  any  thing  by 
which  you  could  have  recognized  your  child,  had  she 
lived?" 

"  I  know  of  nothing,"  said  Hastings,  unconcernedly. 
"  I  have  no  hope  at  all  of  her  being  alive." 

"  Her  name,  you  say,  was  Flora  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

"  What  colored  hair  and  eyes  had  she  ?  " 

Hastings  looked  at  the  old  man,  wondering  why  he 
should  ask  such  questions,  and  then  answered :  — 

She  had  beautiful  auburn  hair,  and  large  blue  eyes. 


332  THE  CROOKED   ELM; 

"Were  she  alive  now,  I  should  know  her  by  these 
alone." 

The  old  man,  now  almost  unable  to  control  himself, 
said,  in  a  voice  full  of  emotion :  — 

"  What  you  have  said,  Mr.  Hastings,  interests  me 
much.  I  am  led  to  believe  that  the  child  you  lost  is  the 
same  Flora  who  lived  with  me" 

"  What !  What !  Impossible !  What  do  you  mean ! 
My  child,  the  little  girl  who  lived  with  you!  No!  I 
will  not  believe  it !  It  cannot  be ! " 

"  Calm  yourself,  Mr.  Hastings,  and  I  will  tell  you 
why  I  think  it  possible,  yea,  quite  probable,  that  they 
are  one  and  the  same." 

"  Do  not  torment  me  by  such  a  supposition !  Tell 
me  not  that  it  was  my  child  who  lived  with  you !  I  can- 
not endure  the  thought !  It  cannot  —  it  shall  not  be  true ! 
I  will  not  believe  it ! " 

Beside  himself  at  the  thought  of  having  possibly  been 
instrumental  in  taking  his  own  child's  life,  Hastings  was 
almost  distracted.  "  No,"  said  he,  "  I  will  not  listen  to 
your  story."  As  he  said  this  he  got  up  hastily,  and 
started  to  leave  the  old  man,  but  he  'could  not  go. 
Confused  and  wild  almost,  from  this  sudden  surprise, 
he  knew  not  what  he  was  doing.  When  he  had  com- 
posed himself  a  little,  he  returned,  pale  and  agitated,  to 
the  old  man,  and  said :  — 

"  You  will  pardon,  I  trust,  what  must  seem  to  you 
strange  in  me.  The  surprise  you  gave  me  was  so  sud- 
den that  I  lost  all  command  of  myself." 

The  old  man  did  think  that  Hastings  acted  strangely. 
"  He  does  not,"  thought  he,  "  wish  to  think  that  the  dar- 
ling child  who  lived  with  me  was  his.  I  should  think  he 
would  be  rejoiced  to  find  even  where  she  was  buried." 
When  Hastings  had  seated  himself  again  by  the  old 
man's  side,  he  continued :  — 


OR,  LIFE   BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  333 

"  Will  you  now  tell  me  why  you  think  the  little  girl 
who  li ved  with  you  was  the  child  I  lost  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  accustomed,"  commenced  the  old  man, 
"  to  spend  my  winters  in  New  Orleans.  ^In  the  spring 
of  18 — ,  just  before  returning  north,  I  was  at  a  friend's 
house  in  the  city  I  have  mentioned.  Late  at  night,  we 
heard  a  noise  at  the  front  door ;  and,  on  going  to  ascer- 
tain what  caused  it,  found  a  little  child  tied  up  in  a 
bundle  of  clothing,  lying  on  the  steps.  It  was  taken  in, 
and  as  Mrs.  Rivington  and  I  had  no  children  (Mis. 
Rivington  was  then  alive)  we  concluded  to  adopt  it, 
and  if  no  one  came  to  claim  it,  educate  and  bring  it  up 
as  our  own  child.  It  continued  to  live  with  us  until  it 
Was  two  years  old,  when  Mrs.  Rivington  died  one 
winter,  while  we  were  at  New  Orleans.  Since  then, 
and  until  the  time  of  the  poor  child's  death,  I  took 
charge  of  it  myself.  I  loved  her  as  she  grew  older  as 
much  as  though  she  had  been  my  own."  Here  the 
old  man  wiped  away  a  tear,  and  then  went  on  with 
his  story.  "We  named  the  child  Flora,  because  the 
dress  she  wore  when  we  found  her  had  the  name  '  Flora' 
worked  on  it  in  little  letters.  Flora  had  such  eyes  and 
hair  as  you  described." 

"  Have  you  the  dress  you  found  on  her  ? "  eagerly 
inquired  Hastings. 

"  ^"es,  I  have  always  kept  it  carefully,  thinking  that 
it  might  sometime  be  of  service  to  her  when  she  grew 
up,  in  assisting  her  to  discover  her  parents." 

"  Let  me  see  it,"  said  Hastings,  in  a  trembling  voice. 

"  Come  with  me,"  said  the  old  man,  as  he  got  up  and 
walked  towards  the  house.  During  the  few  moments 
of  Hastings'  anxiety  and  suspense  in  walking  into  the 
house,  a  thousand  thoughts  crowded  in  quick  succession 
upon  his  mind.  He  was  about  to  know  whether  the 
child  whom  he  had  assisted  Belmonte  in  taking  away 


334  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

from  the  old  man  was  his.  What  racking  anxiety  in 
those  brief  moments  of  suspense !  When  they  had  got 
into  the  house,  the  old  man  went  to  a  bureau,  and,  un- 
locking a  drawer,  took  from  it  a  small  bundle  of  cloth- 
ing,—  the  same  that  had  been  found  with  the  child. 
He  took  from  it  a  little  frock,  and  held  it  out  in  his 
hand.  Hastings  looked  at  it  —  his  brain  reeled  —  he 
recognized  it.  —  It  was  the  dress  of  his  own  lost  child. 
He  stood  motionless  for  some  moments  staring  at  it, 
and  then,  bursting  into  tears,  cried  out  in  the  depths  of 
his  grief,  — "  Oh !  that  I  had  never  lived  to  see  this 
hour !  Would  that  I  had  died,  Flora,  long  ago,  for  thy 
sake !  It  is  the  dress  of  my  poor  child !  I  know  it !  I 
know  it ! "  Thus,  in  the  bitterness  of  his  sorrow,  did  he 
upbraid  himself  for  the  part  he  had  taken  in  removing 
his  own  child  from  its  benefactor.  He  was  convinced 
that  the  little  girl  who  had  lived  with  Mr.  Eivington 
was  his,  and  the  conviction  burned  into  his  very  soul. 
It  was  a  long  time  before  he  could  li sten  to  the  old  man 
while  he  related  the  incidents  connected  with  the  find- 
ing of  the  child's  body  in  the  river,  —  its  burial,  and 
every  thing  connected  with  its  death.  When  the  old 
man  had  told  him  how,  and  where  the  child  was  found, 
—  where  buried,  etc.,  Hastings  said :  — 

"  What  dress  had  she  on  when  you  found  her  ?  " 

"  I  will  show  you,"  answered  the  old  man,  as  he  went 
to  the  same  drawer  and  took  from  it  a  muslin  dress. 
"  This  is  the  one." 

"  Was  she  much  changed  in  her  appearance  when 
she  was  first  taken  from  the  river  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  should  never  have  recognized  her."  This 
answer  gave  Hastings  some  hope  that  Belmonte's  story 
was  correct. 

"  Would  you  have  known  her,  if  it  had  not  been  for 
her  dress  ?  " 


OR,   LIFE  BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  335 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  said  the  old  man.  "  I 
know  it  was  Flora  we  found.  Why  do  you  ask  so 
strange  a  question  ?  " 

Hastings  saw  that  it  would  not  do  to  press  his  inqui- 
ries further,  so  he  said :  — 

"  I  only  wish  to  know  whether  the  body  was  much 
decayed  when  found?" 

"  She  was  very  much  altered  indeed,"  said  the  old 
man.  He  then  gave  Hastings  a  brief  history  of  Flora, 
from  the  time  he  first  took  her  into  his  family,  up  to  the 
time  of  her  supposed  death.  He  entered  into  all  the 
little  details  of  her  life,  and  frequently  during  the  reci- 
tal did  he  and  Hastings  weep  over  the  touching  inci- 
dents which  he  so  feelingly  described. 

In  the  afternoon,  Hastings,  with  the  old  man  leaning 
on  his  arm,  visited  the  little  mound  where  the  child  and 
Rover  lay  buried. 

"  I  am  glad,"  said  the  old  man  as  they  walked  along, 
"  that  I  have  found  her  father ;  not  that  I  will  love  her 
more,  but  because  it  is  pleasant  to  know  that  her  par- 
ents were  respectable." 

"  I  can  never  repay  you,  Mr.  Rivington,  for  the  kind- 
ness and  love  you  have  shown  for  my  child.  I  shall 
owe  you  a  debt  of  gratitude  to  the  last  day  of  my  life." 

"  The  ways  of  Providence  are  mysterious,"  answered 
the  ofd  man.  "  I  was  a  thousand  times  repaid  for  any 
trouble  that  she  may  have  been  to  me  while  a  babe,  by 
the  purity  and  strength  of  her  love  when  she  grew  older. 
She  was  all  the  happiness  that  was  left  me.  We 
walked  together,  worked  in  the  garden  together,  and  in 
a  thousand  ways  did  she  make  me  happy.  Would  that 
she  had  not  died !  " 

They  had  now  come  near  the  little  mound.  Hast- 
ings was  unable  to  conceal  the  strong  emotions  which 
agitated  his  mind  as  they  drew  nigh.  There,  in  all  the 


336  THE   CROOKED   ELM  ; 

innocent  simplicity  in  which  we  have  seen  them  before, 
were  the  two  little  graves,  surrounded  by  flowers, — part 
of  which  Flora  herself  had  planted.  There  stood  her 
little  play-house.  The  same  marble  slabs  were  at  the 
heads  of  the  graves,  and  the  same  snowy  white  lambs 
lay  at  their  feet  Hastings  looked  eagerly  at  all  around 
him.  "  My  own  child,"  thought  he,  rt  planted  these 
flowers.  This  is  her  little  play-house.  I  am  standing 
on  the  ground  where  she  has  so  often  and  innocently 
played."  They  stood  together  for  some  time  in  silence, 
each  busied  with  his  own  thoughts.  At  length  they, 
seated  themselves  on  the  grass,  and  Hastings  asked  the 
old  man  a  thousand  questions  about  little  Flora.  When 
they  were  about  leaving,  Hastings  went  to  the  play- 
house and  looked  at  its  contents.  He  took  from  it  a 
small  broken  box  and  placed  it  in  his  bosom.  Then 
going  to  the  forget-me-not  at  Rover's  grave,  he  said:  — 

"  May  I  take  a  sprig  of  this  with  me,  Mr.  Rivington  ? 
You  say  she  planted  it  with  her  own  hands.  I  shall 
value  it  above  all  price." 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  old  man,  "  you  can  take  it,  but 
I  never  should  have  consented  to  its  being  disturbed 
by  any  one  else.  She  is  your  child,  —  take  it." 

Hastings  carefully  removed  a  few  sprigs,  and  placed 
them  also  in  his  bosom.  They  then  walked  away,  and 
returned  in  silence  to  the  house. 

"  I  must  now  leave  you,  Mr. .  Rivington,"  said  Hast- 
ings. "  The  love  you  have  shown  my  child  will  always 
make  you  very  dear  to  me." 

"I  am  glad,"  replied  the  old  man,. "to  find  a  father 
who  thought  so  much  of  his  child." 

"  Are  you  not  lonely  here,  Mr.  Rivington  ?  " 

"  No.  I  have  many  servants,  and  I  do  not  care  to 
have  any  one  live  with  me  since  her  death." 

"  May  I  visit  you  occasionally  ?  " 


OR,  JJFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  337 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Hastings,  should  you 
come  here  every  day.  There  is  something  in  your  coun- 
tenance that  reminds  me  of  my  darling  child —  I  mean 
little  Flora.  I  wish  you  would  come  and  see  me  when- 
ever you  can  make  it  pleasant  to  do  so,  and  remain  as 
long  as  you  like.  You  see,  Mr.  Hastings,  that  I  have 
an  abundance  of  every  thing  necessary  for  my  comfort. 
I  have  a  large  house,  almost  unoccupied.  You  will 
always  be  welcome  here,  and  to  all  that  I  have." 

Hastings  pressed  the  old  man's  hand  warmly,  and, 
with  a  heart  overflowing  with  gratitude  and  love  for  him, 
bade  him  good-by,  promising  to  visit  him  again  soon.  I 
will  leave  the  reader  to  imagine  what  his  reflections  must 
have  been  that  night,  as  he  returned  to  the  city  The 
next  day  Hastings  tried  to  collect  his  thoughts,  and  set- 
tle upon  some  definite  plan  to  find  Moulton.  "  He  must 
be  found,"  muttered  he.  "  I  must  know  the  fate  of  my 
child.  If  I  do  not  succeed  in  finding  him,  I  will  seek 
out  Belmonte,  and  compel  him  to  confess  the  extent  of 
his  crime.  If,  as  I  fear,  he  has  murdered  her,  I  will 
make  him  answer  her  death  with  his  own  worthless 
life."  After  thinking  a  long  time,  he  concluded  to  give 
a  full  description  of  Moulton  to  the  chief  of  police  in 
New  York,  and  offer  him  a  large  reward  if  he  succeeded 
in  finding  him.  Acting  upon  this  resolution  he  drew 
up  a  description  of  Moulton,  and  also  wrote  down  some 
of  the  particulars  of  his  life ;  this  he  gave-  to  the  chief 
of  police,  and  explained  to  him  in  addition  all  that  he 
thought  necessary.  He  also  gave  him  a  large  sum  of 
money  to  enable  him  to  commence  the  search  immedi 
ately,  with  the  promise,  that,  if  he  succeeded  in  finding 
him,  he  would  give  him  a  much  larger  sum.  Satisfied 
with  the  thought  that  he  had  now  begun  to  act  in  ear- 
nest in  the  matter,  he  returned  to  his  hotel  with  a  some- 
29 


338  THE  CROOKED   ELM  J 

what  lightened  though  still  saddened  heart,  to  devise 
other  means,  if  possible,  to  find  his  lost  child.  "  Why 
is  it,"  muttered  he,  as  he  sat  in  his  room  that  evening, 
"  that  I  am  thus  sorely  punished  ?  Why  are  some  men 
weighed  down  to  the  earth,  —  yea,  crushed  with  the 
weight  of  their  afflictions,  while  others,  less  worthy,  and 
more  deserving  of  punishment,  pass  through  the  world 
with  no  trouble  at  all  worth  naming  ?  I  have  been  fol- 
lowed with  trouble  all  my  days.  What  had  I  done, 
what  have  I  done  to  merit  it  all  ?  Surely  I  have  reason 
to  complain.  I  will  no  longer  believe  in  an  overruling 
Providence.  If  there  was  a  just  God  in  heaven,.  I  would 
not  be  afflicted  thus."  As  he  was  thus  railing  at  his 
fate,  a  servant  knocked  at  his  door  and  handed  in  a  let- 
ter. He  opened  it,  and  read  as  follows  :  — 

"DEAR  MR.  HASTINGS:  —  Will  it  be  convenient  for 
you  to  call  here  this  evening?  Clemie  and  I  are  at 
home,  and  will  be  glad  to  give  you  a  hearty  welcome. 
We  cannot  imagine  why  you  have  delayed  coming  to 
see  us  so  long.  We  fear  that  something  unusual  has 
kept  you  away.  Will  you  please  come  to-night  and 
relieve  our  minds  of  apprehension?  I  sent  a  messenger 
to  your  office  this  morning,  and  learned  that  you  had 
not  been  there  since  day  before  yesterday.  We  fear 
very  much  that  you  are  ill.  Please  drop  a  line  by  the 
bearer  of  this,  telling  us  if  you  are  unwell,  and  also  if 
we  may  expect  the  pleasure  of  your  company  to-night. 
"  Your  sincere  friend, 

«KATE  COLEMAN." 

"  P.  S.  —  I  have  something  of  importance  to  tell  you. 
Do  come.  KATE." 

This  letter  changed  the  current  of  Hastings'  thoughts. 


OR,  LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  339 

"  I  will  go  and  see  Kate,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  I  have 
neglected  her  very  much  of  late.  She  is  a  very  kind- 
hearted  and  affectionate  girl,  and  much  too  good  a 
friend  of  mine  to  be  badly  treated.  I  fear  she  thinks 
more  of  me  than  she  ought  —  more  than  I  deserve.  I 
must  go  and  see  her,  or  rather  them ;  for  she  has  very 
modestly  written, '  Clemie  and  I  will  be  glad  to  give 
you  a  hearty  welcome.'  Yes,  Kate,  I  will  call  and  see 
you  to-night."  He  took  his  pen  and  wrote  as  fol- 
lows :  — 

"  DEAR  FRIEND  KATE,  —  I  have  just  read  your  polite 
and  kind  note,  and  I  accept  with  pleasure  the  invitation 
to  call  and  see  you  this  evening.  I  will  apologize  for 
my  seeming  neglect  when  I  see  you  —  until  then  please 
believe  me,  as  sincerely  as  ever, 

"  Your  friend,  HASTINGS." 

When  he  had  sealed  this  and  given  it  to  the  messen- 
ger, he  again  fell  into  the  thinking  mood.  "  I  must 
not,"  thought  he,  "  lead  Kate  to  believe  that  I  care  for 
her  other  than  as  a  dear  friend.  There  is  one,  and  only 
one,  in  the  wide  world  whom  I  ever  have  or  ever  can 
love.  Kate  is  worthy,  and  I  know  she  likes  me,  —  I 
fear  she  even  loves  me.  Have  I  not  given  her  encour- 
agement ?  Am  I  not  to  blame  for  making  her  a  suc- 
cessful rival  of  Miss  Leighton  and  Miss  Delacy,  simply 
to  annoy  them,  and  gratify  my  own  foolish  caprice  ?  I 
will  be  more  discreet  in  future." 

About  nine  o'clock  that  night,  Hastings,  without 
much  preparation  in  his  toilet,  and  looking  careworn 
and  somewhat  haggard,  called  at  Mrs.  Coleman's,  and 
was  shown  into  the  drawing-room.  There  was  no  one 
in  it  when  he  entered,  and  he  had  an  opportunity,  while 
left  there  a  moment  to  himself,  to  notice  a  large  china 


340  THE  CROOKED   ELM; 

vase  on  the  table  underneath  the  oval  mirror,  filled  with 
beautiful  exotics.  There  were,  he  thought,  as  he  glanced 
his  eyes  round  the  room,  evidences  that  more  than  ordi- 
nary care  had  been  taken  in  preparing  to  receive  him. 
He  thought,  also,  that  he  detected  Kate's  good  taste 
and  supervising  eye  in  the  management  of  sundry  little 
ornaments,  which  always  add  so  much  to  the  tout  en- 
semble of  the  most  elegantly  furnished  boudoirs.  Hast- 
ings, as  we  have  seen,  had  called  there  frequently  be- 
fore ;  but  the  exciting  incidents  of  the  last  few  weeks 
had  kept  him  away  an  unusually  long  time.  Kate  had 
got  tired  waiting  for  him  to  call  on  her,  and,  unable  to 
continue  longer  in  suspense  and  doubt  as  to  the  cause 
of  his  seeming  neglect,  she  addressed  to  him  the  note 
which  we  have  read,  requesting  him  to  visit  her  that 
evening.  She  loved  Hastings  very  much,  yet  she  was 
too  modest  and  diffident  to  show  him  the  full  extent  of 
her  attachment.  She  could  not  request  him  to  call  and 
see  herself,  even,  but  modestly  informed  him  that  Clemie 
and  she  were  both  at  home.  When  she  got  his  note  in 
answer  to  hers,  accepting  her  invitation,  she  bounded 
about  the  house  with  a  light  heart,  preparing  and  ar- 
ranging every  thing  in  such  a  manner  as  she  thought 
would  please  him. 

Hastings  had  not  waited  long  in  the  drawing-room, 
when  Kate  made  her  appearance,  dressed  with  more 
than  her  usuaj  care.  As  she  approached  and  cordially 
greeted  him,  the  color  in  her  cheeks  came  and  went  in 
quick  succession,  like  the  waves  of  sunshine  and  shade. 
She  looked  inquiringly  into  his  face,  and  said :  — 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  again  !  —  but  you  look  ill. 
Have  you  been  sick  ?  Be  seated,  while  I  scold  you  for 
staying  away  so  long.  Have  you  really  been  ill  ?  " 

"  No,  I  have  not  been  sick.  Business  of  importance 
has  engaged  all  my  time  of  late ;  so  much  so,  indeed, 


OR,   LIFE  BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  341 

that  I  have  no  doubt  you  see  in  my  face  what  I  feel,  — 
that  my  qualities  as  a  beau  are  alarmingly  below  par. 
I  am  glad  to  see,  however,  that  you  have  improved  in 
looks  during  my  absence.  I  never  saw  you  looking  so 
bewitchingly  charming  before." 

Kate  blushed  at  this  compliment,  and  replied :  — 

"  If  your  qualities  as  a  beau  have  depreciated,  I  think 
as  a  flatterer  you  are  still  above  par." 

"  Be  this  as  it  may,  it  has  always  been  a  fault  of 
mine  to  speak  the  truth  at  all  times,  however  disagreea- 
ble it  may  be  to  the  listener." 

A  satisfied  smile  enlivened  Kate's  countenance  as  she 
answered  :  «  I  am  glad  to  see  you  confess  your  faults. 
It  encourages  one  to  hope  better  things  of  you  in  fu- 
ture." 

"  I  fear,  Kate,  that  there  is  very  little  in  me  worth 
hoping  for.  But  what  is  it  that  you  have  to  iell  me  ? 
You  wrote  that  you  had  something  of  importance  to 
communicate." 

"  I  have  something  to  tell  you,  but  I  will  wait  until 
your  next  visit  before  I  impart  the  important  news." 

"  Well,  I  will  not  quarrel  with  you,  although  the  ex- 
action you  make  is  very  unreasonable." 

Hastings  tried  to  appear  cheerful,  but  he  could  not 
conceal  the  trouble  and  anxiety  which  weighed  upon 
his  mind.  His  words  were  light  and  gay,  but  his  heart 
was  sad,  and  alt  his  efforts  to  disguise  the  fact  were  un- 
successful. Miss  Clemie  soon  came  into  the  drawing- 
room  with  a  book  in  her  hand  which  she,  seemingly,  had 
just  been  reading.  She  was  two  years  younger  than 
her  sister,  and  in  many  respects  very  different.  She 
walked  hastily  up  to  Mr.  Hastings,  and,  shaking  him 
heartily  by  the  hand,  exclaimed :  — 

"  How  ill  you  look !     I  hardly  knew  you  ! " 
29* 


342  THE  CROOKED  ELM, 

"  Do  you  think  me,  then,  so  t7Z-looking,  Miss  Clemie  ? 

"  I  am  sure  you  have  been  sick  —  have  n't  you  ?  " 

They  joined  in  a  general  conversation  for  a  few  min 
utes,  when  Clemie,  excusing  herself,  took  a  seat  at  the 
further   end  of  the  room,  and  continued  reading  her 
book. 

"  I  think,"  said  Kate,  in  the  latter  part  of  the  evening^ 
"  that  something  troubles  you.  You  do  not  look  as 
cheerful  as  you  used  to." 

"  That  is  your  imagination." 

"  I  hope  so." 

"  When  do  you  go  into  the  country  ?  "  asked  Hastings, 
changing  the  subject. 

"  The  latter  part  of  next  week,  I  believe." 

"  You  go  to  Newport,  do  you  not  ?  " 

"  No,  I  believe  mother  has  decided  on  going  to  Sara- 
toga." 

"  That  will  be  pleasant  for  you.  There  are  always 
plenty  of  fine  beaux  at  Saratoga." 

"  I  had  rather  remain  in  the  city  than  go  to  any 
watering-place,  but  mamma  will  not  let  me." 

"  I  should  think  that  you  would  be  impatient  to  get 
away  from  this  monotonous  city." 

"  We  are  just  as  comfortable  here  as  we  would  be  at 
any  of  those  fashionable  resorts.  Where  will  you  spend 
the  remainder  of  the  summer  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  shall  go  to  Newport  foi*  a  few  weeks. 
The  sea  air  is  beneficial  to  me.  When  you  return  from 
Saratoga  I  shall  expect  to  be  introduced  to  some  dash- 
ing young  beaux.  Do  you  understand,  Kate  ?  " 

"  I  understand ;  but  you  will  be  disappointed  in  your 
expectation." 

"  I  hope  not.  I  hope  you  will  make  the  acquaint- 
ance of  some 'gentleman  as  worthy  as  you  are  your- 
self." 


OR,  LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  343 

Hastings  said  this  with  a  somewhat  serious  counte- 
nance, and  could  not  fail  to  see  how  unpleasant  it  made 
Kate  feel.  He  wished,  however,  to  let  her  know  that 
his  visits  were  those  of  a  friend  only,  and  he  added :  — 

"  It  is  growing  late,  and  I  must  not  remain  longer  to- 
night. It  will  give  me  pleasure  on  my  return  to  learn 
that  you  have  made  the  acquaintance,  at  the  Springs,  of 
your  future  husband.  Do  not  think  me  officious,  Kate, 
and  believe  that  few  wish  you  better  than  I  do." 

She  made  no  reply  to  what  he  said,  but  looked  dis- 
concerted and  embarrassed.  He  got  up  to  leave ;  he 
saw  that  he  had  made  her  unhappy,  yet  he  did  not  wish 
to  change  the  impression  which  his  words  had  made  on 
her  mind.  Turning  to  the  vase  of  flowers,  he  said  :  — 

"  These  are  beautiful !  I  was  admiring  them  while 
sitting  here  alone." 

"  Do  you  like  them  ? "  said  Kate,  her  countenance 
lighting  up  suddenly.  "  Here,"  said  she,  "  I  will  make 
you  a  present  of  this  heliotrope,  upon  condition  that 
you  never  wish  me  so  many  bad  wishes  again." 

She  took  the  flower  from  the  vase  and  handed  it  to 
him  so  modestly  and  prettily  that  he  could  but  accept 
it,  with  the  condition  imposed,  and  praise  its  delicious 
odor  and  its  rare  beauty. 

"  We  shall  not  leave  town  before  the  latter  part  of 
next  "week,"  said  Kate,  "  and  if  you  wish  to  hear  the 
important  news  I  promised,  you  must  call  before  we 
leave." 

"  I  shall  <3o  so  with  pleasure,"  said  Hastings.  And 
then,  shaking  her  heartily  by  the  hand,  they  separated 
for  the  night,  she  to  think  of  what  he  had  said,  and  he 
to  brood  over  his  heart  troubles. 

The  next  day  Mrs.  Coleman  and  her  daughters  were 
sitting  together,  when  Kate  said  :  — 

"  Mamma,  why  don't  you  go  to  Newport,  instead  of 


344  THE   CKOOKED   ELM; 

Saratoga  ?  I  think  that  Saratoga  is  the  stupidest  place 
we  could  go  to.  Besides,  if  one  must  leave  the  city 
why  not  go  to  the  sea-coast,  where  it  is  cool,  and  where 
one  can  bathe  in  the  sea-water  ?  I  like  bathing  in  salt 
water  very  much.  It  would  be  beneficial  to  us  all. 
Won't  you  go  to  Newport,  mamma  ?  " 

"  Kate  has  always  got  something  new  in  her  head," 
joined  in  Clemie.  "  I  wouldn't  go  to  Newport  on  any 
account.  There  is  no  place  like  Saratoga." 

"  But,  Clemie,"  replied  Kate,  "  all  the  hotels  at  Sara- 
toga are  crowded  to  overflowing.  What  comfort  could 
we  take  there  ?  " 

"  I  have  made  arrangements  to  go  to  Saratoga,  girls," 
said  Mrs.  Coleman,  "  and  I  cannot  change  my  plans 
now." 

"  I  don't  wish  to  go  to  Saratoga,  mamma,"  said  Kate, 
half  poutingly. 

"  Well,  I  do,  though,"  said  Clemie.  «  All  the  fine 
beaux  go  to  Saratoga." 

"  All  the  fine  beaux,  indeed !  You  had  better  think 
of  your  books  than  fine  beaux,  Miss  Clemie,"  said  Kate, 
reprovingly. 

"  There  is  no  use  of  your  disputing  about  the  mat- 
ter," said  the  mother.  "  I  thought  that  you  would  both 
like  going  to  Saratoga.  You  never  have  expressed  your 
preference  for  Newport  before,  Kate." 

"  I  never  have  said  that  I  liked  going  to  Saratoga, 
mamma,"  said  Kate.  "  I  don't  see  what  difference  it 
would  make.  Why  can't  you  go  to  Newport,  as  well 
as  Saratoga?" 

"  For  the  same  reason,"  said  the  mother,  "  I  do  not 
see  why  you  object  so  strenuously  to  going  to  Sara- 
toga." 

Kate  had  her  own  reasons  for  the  choice  she  had 
made,  but  she  did  not  see  fit  to  make  them  known ;  so 


OR,  LIFE   BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  345 

she  reluctantly  yielded  to  her  mamma  and  Clemie,  and 
said  nothing  more  about  going  to  Newport. 

Hastings  called  again  on  Kate  before  they  left  and 
spent  a  pleasant  evening,  and  on  leaving  wished  her  and 
Clemie  a  great  deal  of  happiness  during  their  absence.  A 
few  days  after  they  had  gone,  he,  too,  left  the  city  ;  not  to 
go  to  Newport,  however,  but  to  forward  plans  which  he 
had  formed,  and  which  concerned  him  more  than  all 
things  else. 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 


THE  ship  Graceful,  in  which  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Belmonte 
had  taken  passage,  moved  slowly  down  New  York  bay. 
As  the  city  became  less  and  less  distinct,  and  as  Mrs. 
Belmonte  left  further  and  further  behind  all  that  to  her 
was  dear,  she  gave  vent  to  her  desponding  feelings  and 
wept  the  burning  tears  of  regret  at  separating  from  one, 
around  whom  the  tendrils  of  her  girlhood's  first  affections 
clung  for  life  and  nourishment.  She  wept  tears  of  sor- 
JTOW  also  for  the  web  of  troubles  that  seemed  to  enfold 
her  in  its  meshes  and  threaten  her  utter  ruin.  She 
stood  upon  deck  looking  out  on  the  fast  receding  city. 
"  I  am  leaving  you  forever,  William,"  she  said,  men- 
tally. "  I  feel  that  I  shall  never  see  you  again.  Land 
of  my  childhood!  I  am  looking  at  you  for  the  last  time. 
I  must  now  bid  adieu  to  all  my  dreams  of  happiness. 
There  is  nothing  left  to  make  life  endurable."  She  did 
not  try  to  conceal  her  grief.  Belmonte  saw  her  weeping, 
and  turning  away  he  muttered  :  — 

"  I  will  yet  be  revenged  on  you  and  him.  I  am  only 
waiting  the  proper  time.  Weeping  for  him  before  my 
face !  Your  tears  shall  be  changed  into  blood.  The 
time  is  coming  when  I  will  be  what  I  now  feel." 
The  vessel  moved  on  and  on,  until  the  city  was  left  far 
behind  in  the  dim  and  hazy  distance.  It  was  soon  out 
of  sight.  The  Highlands  also  disappeared,  and  the 

(346) 


THE   CROOKED   ELM.  347 

Graceful  was  alone  on  the  wide  ocean.  Mrs.  Belmonte 
felt  that  she,  too,  was  on  the  wide  and  troubled  ocean  of 
life,  separated  from  all  who  cared  for  or  loved  her,  and 
left  to  drift  whithersoever  its  eddies  and  currents  tended. 
She  never  had  been  on  the  ocean  before.  Every  thing 
was  new  to  her  ;  the  singing  of  the  sailors  as  they  worked 
at  the  capstan  or  pulled  at  the  bowline,  all,  all  was  to 
her  novel  and  strange.  The  weather  was  warm  and 
pleasant,  and  for  two  or  three  days  the  Graceful  moved 
smoothly  and  majestically  through  the  slightly  ruffled 
waters.  There  was  a  gentle  westerly  breeze  blowing, 
and  all  her  sails  were  set.  Mrs.  Belmonte  remained 
upon  deck  most  of  the  time,  seemingly  looking  out  on 
the  vast  expanse  of  water,  but  really  absorbed  in  her 
own  reflections.  Occasionally  the  captain  pointed  out 
to  her  a  sail,  a  shark,  or  a  school  of  black-fish,  and  for  a 
moment  her  thoughts  were  diverted  from  the  general 
melancholy  which  weighed  upon  her  mind.  One  day, 
as  the  Graceful  lay  becalmed  a  little  westward  of  the 
Banks  of  Newfoundland,  a  school  of  whales,  number- 
ing thirty  or  forty  in  all,  played  about  the  vessel  for 
several  hours.  Sometimes  two  of  these  monsters  of  the 
deep  would  swim  close  up  under  the  bows  of  the  ship 
and  spout  forth  huge  columns  of  water,  making  a  noise 
not  unlike  a  steam-engine,  and  showing  their  large  black 
backs  "above  the  surface  of  the  water.  Some  of  them 
were  far  off  under  the  horizon,  and  could  only  be  distin- 
guished by  the  water  which  they  occasionally  spouted 
into  the  air ;  others  were  nearer,  and  could  be  distinctly 
seen  every  time  they  rose  to  the  surface  to  breathe. 
They  invariably  swam  together  in  pairs,  and  all  seemed 
to  be  enjoying  a  merry  holiday.  Mrs.  Belmonte,  anx- 
ious to  get  relief  from  her  sorrows,  sat  watching  them 
for  a  long  time,  as  the  Graceful  lounged  lazily  on  the 


348  THE  CROOKED   ELM; 

waves,  flapping  her  masts  and  yards  with  her  snowy 
white  sails. 

When  they  had  been  out  about  a  week  the  wind 
freshened  and  shifted,  and  the  sea  became  so  rough  that 
Mrs.  Belmonte  had  to  go  to  her  berth,  where  she  re- 
mained, sea-sick  and  dispirited,  during  the  remainder  of 
the  voyage. 

When  Belmonte  arrived  in  England,  he  went  to  see 
an  old  friend  of  his,  who  resided  near  Liverpool.  After 
remaining  there  a  few  days  he  told  his  friend  that  it  was 
necessary  for  him  to  return  to  New  York ;  that  business 
of  a  pressing  nature  demanded  his  immediate  presence 
there.  "  But,"  added  he,  "  I  will  tax  your  hospitality  by 
leaving  Mrs.  Belmonte  with  you  until  I  come  back." 

"  We  shall  be  delighted  to  have  her  remain  with  us," 
said  Belmonte's  friend,  "  and  will  make  her  stay  as 
pleasant  as  possible.  We  remember  your  hospitality  to 
us  when  we  were  in  New  York.  We  shall  be  happy  to 
have  her  remain  as  long  as  it  is  pleasant  to  herself." 

The  morning  before  Belmonte  left,  he  held  the  fol- 
lowing conversation  with  his  wife  :  — 

"  I  am  going  back  to  New  York,  —  shall  leave  to-day. 
I  wish  you  to  remain  here  until  I  return.  It  is  quite 
possible  that  you  may  guess  what  takes  me  back  there. 
If  you  write  to  Hastings,  or  in  any  way  inform  him 
that  I  have  returned,  I  will  abandon  you,  and  expose 
your  character  to  your  friends  and  to  the  world.  It 
will  be  impossible  for  you  to  deceive  me  again." 

«  Is  this  all  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Belmonte,  half  indignantly. 

"  No,"  replied  he,  with  flashing  eyes,  "  it  is  not  all;  but 
it  is  sufficient  for  the  present" 

His  tone  and  manner  completely  subdued  her,  and 
she  said :  — 

"  I  ask  nothing  of  you  but  the  mercy  of  your  silence. 


OB,   LITE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  349 

What  I  am  or  have  been,  you  will  never  know  from 
my  lips,  because,  if  I  told  you  the  truth,  you  would  dis- 
believe me.  I  repeat,  your  silence  is  all  I  ask.  Only 
let  my  character  rest  a  little  while,  and  it  will  be  buried 
with  me  in  the  grave." 

"  You  are  deucedly  sentimental  over  your  apostasy," 
replied  he,  sneeringly. 

"  I  shall  say  no  more,"  answered  she,  as  she  turned  to 
leave  her  enraged  husband. 

"  I  think,"  continued  he,  "  that  you  had  better  say 
no  more,  unless  it  be  to  damn  your  inconstancy." 
•  This  was  all  the  consolation  that  Mrs.  Belmonte  re- 
ceived from  him  previous  to  Ms  leaving.  She  was  left 
alone  in  a  strange  country,  shut  out  from  all  whom  she 
knew,  and  left  to  believe  that  Hastings,  whom  she  so 
idolized,  was  in  danger.  Bessy  was  left  with  her ;  and, 
though  she  on  former  occasions  had  betrayed  her  mis- 
tress, she  now  loved  her  with  all  her  heart,  and  was 
truly  sorry  for  what  she  had  done.  It  was  her  love  of 
money  that  had  led  her  into  the  trap  of  Mrs.  Delacy, 
and  not  her  dislike  of  Mrs.  Belmonte.  She  now  in 
every  way  tried,  in  her  entire  devotion  to  her  mistress'  in- 
terests, to  redeem  the  treachery  of  the  past. 

Belmonte  had  returned  to  New  York,  and  in  dis- 
guise and  in  a  fictitious  name  had  put  up  at  an  ob- 
scure" and  out  of  the  way  hotel,  where  he  remained, 
never  going  out,  except  after  dark.  He  had  not  been 
there  many  days,  when  a  man,  closely  muffled,  visited 
him  about  ten  o'clock  one  night,  and  the  two  remained 
closeted  together  for  more  than  an  hour.  Not  many 
evenings  after,  the  same  suspicious  looking  individual 
came  again  to  the  hotel  where  Belmonte  was  stopping, 
and,  gliding  quickly  and  unobservedly  up  the  stairs, 
knocked  at  his  door.  Belmonte  let  him  in  immediately, 
30 


350  THE   CROOKED   ELM  J 

and  after  surely  bolting  the  door,  said:  "Have  you 
seen  hip.  _,  ?» 

"  Yes,  he  came  to  town  last  night ;  but  I  am  dry  as  a 
mackerel!  Tarn  me,  if  I've  had  three  drinks  to-day ! " 

Belmonte,  although  provoked  at  the  delay,  ordered 
two  whiskey  punches.  While  they  were  waiting  for 
them  to  be  brought  in,  Belmonte  said :  — 

"  You  have  seen  him,  then  ?  " 

"  I  can't  talk  business  till  the  grog  comes,"  said  the 
man  dryly,  as  he  began  to  remove  a  wig  and  false  pair 
of  whiskers.  "  I  always  like  my  glass  beside  me  when 
talking  business." 

"  You  are  looking  glum  to-night,  Duggett.  What's 
in  the  wind  now  ?  " 

"  Curse  the  wind !    What  do  —  " 

Before  he  could  finish  the  sentence  there  was  a  rap  at 
the  door,  and  he  hastily  concealed  his  wig  and  whiskers, 
by  placing  them  in  his  chair  and  sitting  down  upon 
them.  He  had  scarcely  done  so,  when  the  waiter  en- 
tered with  the  punches.  Duggett  emptied  his  glass  at  a 
swallow,  and  ordered  another  to  be  brought.  The  whis- 
key seemed  to  put  him  in  better  spirits. 

"  I  seed  him,"  commenced  he,  "  to-day.  Tarn  me  if 
I  didn't  go  straight  to  the  critter's  office,  and  git  a 
glimpse  of  him.  It  was  about  twelve  o'clock  when  I 
went  in.  I  saw  a  man  settin'  down  by  a  desk  writin,' 
and  says  I,  'Is  Mr.  Hastings  in?'  That's  my  name! 
says  he.  So  I  said,  says  I,  '  If  a  man  can't  pay  his  rent 
at  quarter-day,  can  the  landlord  turn  a  body  out ! '  He 
looked  at  me  a  minit,  and  then  took  down  a  book 
and  said,  says  he, '  What's  your  name?'  So  you  see  I 
was  stumped,  but  I  soon  recollected  myself  and  said, 
says  I :  '  My  name  is  John  Smith,'  —  John  Smith  is  a 
mighty  convenient  name,  but  I  didn't  tell  him  so. 


OR,   LIFE  BY  THE   WAT-SIDE.  351 

*  Where  do  you  live,  Mr.  Smith  ? '  says  he.  '  On  Centre 
street,'  says  I.  '  What  number  ? '  says  he.  There  he 
got  me  agin ;  but  says  I, '  there  isn't  no  number  on  the 
house.'  «  Very  well,'  says  he.  Now  what  do  you  want 
of  me,  Mr.  Smith  ?  So  I  said,  says  I :  « If  a  body  can't 
pay  his  rent  when  it  comes  due,  can  the  landlord  turn 
a  body  out  ? '  '  He  can,  Mr.  Smith,'  says  he.  '  What  is 
the  damages  ? '  says  I.  '  Nothing,'  says  he.  So  do  you 
see,  I  left  He  has  a  mighty  keen  eye,  he  has,  and  tarn 
me  if  I  didn't  feel  as  though  he  was  looking  two  holes 
through  me  while  I  stood  there."  The  second  punch 
was  now  brought  in,  and  Duggett,  taking  a  swallow  of 
it,  continued :  — 

"  He's  a  mighty  shrewd  chap,  that's  sartain." 

"  Would  you  know  him,  should  you  meet  him  again?  " 

"Know  him!  Wouldn't  I!  He's  not  one  of  them 
chaps  that  one  soon  forgets." 

"  I  want  you  to  dog  him  to-morrow,  Duggett,  and  see 
what  he  does,  and  where  he  goes.  Follow  him  from 
the  time  he  leaves  his  hotel  until  he  returns  to  it  again 
to-morrow  night.  Do  you  understand  ?  " 

"  Perfectly,"  answered  Duggett. 

"  You  will  call  here  to-morrow  night,  after  you  leave 
him,  and  tell  me  all  that  transpires.  Let  me  see,"  said 
Belrnente,  as  he  thought  for  a  moment.  "  No,  I  will 
call  and  see  you  at  eleven  o'clock.  Be  sure  to  be  in  at 
that  hour.  You  will  know  me  when  I  come  by  the 
usual  double  knock." 

"  I  will  be  there  at  eleven,"  said  Dnggett.  «  But  I 
must  have  some  money  as  I  go  along." 

"  You  promised  to  ask  nothing  until  the  business  was 
accomplished,"  replied  Belmonte. 

"  I  know  I  did,"  said  Duggett,  coolly ;  "  but  you  know 
body  and  soul  must  be  kept  together,  as  the  preacher 
says."  Here  he  emptied  his  glass.  Belmonte,  seeing 


352  THE   CROOKED  ELMJ 

no  other  alternative,  and  feeling  that  he  was,  to  some 
extent  at  least,  in  his  accomplice's  power,  pulled  two  ten 
dollar  gold  pieces  from  his  pocket  and  handed  them  to 
him.  "  Your  promises,"  continued  Duggett,  very  pro- 
vokingly,  "  are  all  very  fair;  but  many's  the  slip,  'twixt 
the  cup  and  the  lip,  as  the  poet  says.  Saul  Duggett 
never  gives  in  though,  and  you  may  depend  on  me  to 
the  eend." 

"  Well,  watch  him  closely  to-morrow,"  said  Belmonte, 
impatiently. 

"  Yes,  I  understand.  We  will  have  another  punch. 
I  am  almighty  dry,  —  tarn  me  if  I  aint." 

Belmonte  dissembled  his  feelings,  and  ordered  two 
more  punches.  Duggett  drank  his  off  lightly,  and  soon 
left;  not,  however,  until  he  had  carefully  replaced  his 
wig  and  whiskers.  As  soon  as  he  had  gone,  Belmonte 
muttered  :  "  Blast  the  fellow !  He  will  spoil  every 
thing  yet !  His  infernal  appetite  for  drink  will  rain  all 
my  plans  !  I  can't  control  him,  however,  and  it  is  now 
too  late  to  think  of  another  accomplice.  His  fancied 
power  over  me  makes  him  impudent.  The  knave! 
Only  wait  until  I  am  fairly  through  this  business,  and 
I  will  soon  dispose  of  him !  I  will  trust  no  one  with 
such  a  secret.  I  must  endure  his  insolence  for  a  time, 
however,  as  patiently  as  I  am  able." 

The  next  morning  early,  Saul  Duggett  was  hovering 
near  the  hotel  where  Hastings  was  stopping.  After 
watching  attentively  for  some  hours,  he  saw  Hastings 
come  out,  get  into  his  carriage,  and  drive  up  Fifth 
Avenue.  Duggett  followed  it  closely  until  it  turned  off' 
into  the  Bloomingdale  road,  and  then  falling  further  be- 
hind, he  kept  in  sight  of  it  until  he  saw  it  turn  up  to 
the  door  of  a  large  house  a  few  miles  out  of  the  city. 
He  saw  Hastings  alight  from  it  and  go  in,  and  soon 
after  saw  him  walking  in  the  garden  in  company  with 


OR,  LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  353 

an  old  man.  He  watched  them  attentively  for  about  an 
hour,  when  Hastings  and  the  old  man  got  into  the  car- 
riage and  drove  away.  He  did  not  follow  them,  but  lay 
concealed  near  the  house  until'  they  returned.  The  car- 
riage did  not  stand  long  at  the  door,  before  the  coach- 
man mounted  the  box  and  drove  back  in  the  direction 
of  the  city,  with  no  one  inside.  Saul  Duggett  immedi- 
ately stepped  into  the  road,  and  walked  back  toward 
the  city,  also.  When  the  carriage  came  up  with  him, 
they  were  ascending  a  little  hill. 

"  Them's  mighty  fine  horses,"  said  Duggett,  address- 
ing the  coachman.  "  They're  Mr.  Hastings',  aint  they  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  coachman,  little  inclined  to 
enter  into  a  conversation. 

"  I  knew  they  was.  He  always  keeps  good  horses. 
They're  five  years  old,  aint  they  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  coachman ;  "  they  were  five  last 
spring." 

"  I  knew  so.  I  never  knowed  him  to  keep  old  horses 
as  long  as  I've  been  acquainted  with  him.  He  is  a 
mighty  good  judge  of  a  horse,  —  and  always  was." 

They  had  now  come  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  the 
coachman,  knowing  that  Duggett  was  expecting  to  be 
invited  to  get  on  to  the  box,  and  thinking  that  he  was 
well  acquainted  with  Hastings,  he  said :  — 

"  Would  you  like  to  ride  a  little  way  ?  " 

"  I  don't  care  if  I  do,"  said  Duggett,  as  though  the 
idea  had  not  struck  him  until  that  moment.  "  You  are 
driving  the  horses  out  for  exercise,  I  suppose,"  continued 
Duggett,  as  soon  as  he  was  seated  beside  the  coachman. 

"  No,  I  left  Mr.  Hastings  at  that  large  house,  which 
you  must  have  passed  a  little  way  back." 

"  Oh,  you  did  !     I  thought  you  were  only  airing  them 
a  little.     You  go  back  after  him,  I  suppose  ?  " 
30* 


354  THE  CROOKED  ELM; 

"  No ;  he  remains  there  until  to-morrow  morning,  and 
then  is  going  to  walk  into  town." 

"  The  deuce  he  is !  I  never  thought  he  was  much  of 
a  walker." 

"  Oh,  he  frequently  walks  out  that  far  before  sun- 
up" 

«  You  don't  say ! " 

"  Yes.  He  likes  walking  in  the  morning  !  I'll  war- 
rant he'll  be  in  town  to-morrow  morning  before  sun- 
rise." 

"  I  should  think  he  would  go  on  horseback." 

"  He  does  sometimes." 

Duggett  thus  led  the  coachman  on,  until  he  had 
learned  from  him  all  that  he  wished  to  know ;  and,  not 
wishing  to  ride  into  the  city  in  company  with  him,  he 
said:  — 

"  Well,  I'm  much  obleeged  to  you  for  the  ride  you've 
give  me.  I  must  cross  the  river  here,  if  you'll  let  me 
down." 

The  coachman  stopped,  and  Duggett,  springing  from 
the  box,  turned  into  a  field  towards  the  Hudson,  and 
as  soon  as  the  carriage  was  out  of  sight  hurried  back 
to  the  city. 

About  eleven  o'clock  that  night,  Belmonte,  true  to  his 
promise,  glided  noiselessly  out  of  his  hotel  and  walked 
hastily  along,  crossing  one  street  and  another,  until  he 
came  to  Chambers  street.  He  followed  this  down  to 
Centre  street,  and  proceeding  down  this  in  the  direction  of 
the  Tombs,  he  kept  on  until  nearly  opposite  its  huge  gran- 
ite pillars,  when  turning  down  a  dark  narrow  street  to  the 
right,  he  was  soon  in  that  locality  known  as  the  Five 
Points.  The  street  lamps  gave  but  a  flickering  light ;  and 
more  than  once,  as  Belmonte  passed  some  more  than 
usually  gloomy  place,  did  he  wish  that  he  had  let  Saul 


OR,  LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  355 

Duggett  come  to  the  hotel.  The  atmosphere  became 
more  and  more  humid  and  nauseous  as  he  advanced. 
Depraved  men,  women,  and  children,  half  concealed  in 
their  rickety  dens  of  shame,  mingled  in  their  midnight 
revels,  more  like  fallen  spirits  from  the  other  world  than 
intelligent  human  beings.  Belmonte  occasionally  heard 
their  deep  curses  and  blasphemous  profanity  as  he  hur- 
ried on.  He  saw  besotted  women,  dirty  and  in  rags, 
drinking,  swearing,  and  carousing  with  bloated  and 
drunken  men.  Precocious  children,  with  the  evidences 
of  depravity  written  in  their  faces,  mixed  with  the  older 
spirits  in  this  pandemonium  of  vice  and  crime.  Now 
and  then  a  female,  whose  face  the  street  lamps  showed 
to  be  bloated  and  blotched,  accosted  him  with:  — 
"Deary,  what's  your  hurry?  Duckey,  won't  you  go 
with  me  ?  Honey,  give  me  a  quarter.  My  love !  my 
duckey !  darling ! "  But  he  turned  neither  to  the  right 
nor  the  left  until  he  came  to  Saul  Duggett's  house. 
Had  Belmonte  been  a  philanthropic  man,  he  might 
have  seen  enough  in  that  one  short  walk  to  occupy  all 
his  missionary  thoughts  and  labors  to  the  end  of  his  life. 
As  it  was,  his  thoughts  were  not  about  how  their  con- 
dition could  be  bettered,  but  how  he  might  accomplish 
his  purposes  and  avoid  them  as  much  as  possible.  He 
gave  the  knock  agreed  upon  when  he  came  to  Duggett's 
house,  and  was  admitted.  There  was  a  dim  light 
burning  in  an  inner  room.  When  they  had  picked 
their  way  into  it,  Duggett  said :  — 

"  Take  a  cheer  and  set  down." 

Belmonte  did  as  requested,  although  the  spectral  ap- 
pearance of  every  thing  in  the  house,  coupled  with  the 
scenes  he  had  just  witnessed,  and  a  knowledge  of  the 
locality  he  was  in,  made  him  nervous  and  uneasy.  His 
lip  quivered  as  he  asked :  — 

"  What  has  been  your  success  to-day,  Duggett  ?  " 


356  THE  CROOKED  ELM; 

"  Wait  a  minit,"  said  Duggett,  in  answer.  "  I  '11  soon 
be  back." 

He  then  opened  a  trap-door  and  descended  a  pair  of 
stairs,  taking  with  him  the  light,  and  leaving  Belraonte 
in  total  darkness.  He  soon  returned  with  a  bottle  and 
two  tumblers. 

"  Won't  you  have  a  little  o'  suthin,"  inquired  he  of 
Belmonte,  as  he  placed  them  on  the  table. 

"  No,"  answered  the  latter ;  "  I  have  been  drinking." 

"  Well  then,"  said  Duggett,  who  evidently  had  been 
drinking  freely,  "  here  is  to  the  success  of —  of — ,  tarna- 
tion if  I  know  what  of."  He  drank  off  half  a  tumbler 
of  the  liquor,  and  then  seating  himself,  said:  — 

"  Now,  I  am  ready  for  business." 

The  appearance  of  the  rooms,  as  dimly  seen  by  the  fee- 
ble light,  was  that  of  poverty.  There  were  no  carpets 
on  the  floor,  and  the  walls  looked  dingy  and  old.  A 
cupboard  stood  in  one  corner  of  the  room  where  they 
were,  and  a  few  old  clothes  hung  against  the  board  par- 
tition between  the  two  rooms.  A  few  chairs,  an  old 
clock  on  the  mantel-piece,  and  the  table  beside  which 
they  were  sitting,  completed  the  furniture  of  the  room. 
Saul  Duggett  had  been  a  blacksmith  ;  but  of  late  years 
he  never  was  known  to  follow  any  employment  for  a 
livelihood.  He  had  more  than  once  been  suspected  of 
crime,  even  of  murder ;  yet  there  was  no  evidence 
against  him  of  a  nature  sufficient  to  warrant  his  being 
indicted.  He  was  naturally  a  shrewd,  bold  man,  with 
a  strong  yet  uncultivated  mind.  He  had  lived  for 
several  years  in  the  house  where  he  then  was,  and,  in 
some  way,  always  managed  to  pay  his  rent  when  it  fell 
due,  much  to  the  wonder  of  some  of  his  immediate 
neighbors,  who  always  saw  him  spending,  but  never 
making  money.  He  was  naturally  rather  reserved  when 
with  those  in  his  own  station  in  life ;  indeed,  he  seldom 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  357 

mixed  much  in  society.  He  had  a  wife,  or  at  least  a 
woman  lived  with  him.  Gossips,  and  people  learned  in 
the  affairs  of  their  neighbors  did  say,  however,  that  she 
was  not  his  wife,  and  that  she  was  no  better  than  she 
should  be.  The  latter  was  undoubtedly  true ;  but  I  will 
not  vouch  for  the  former. 

"  Have  you  seen  him  to-day?"  inquired  Belmonte. 

"  Yes,  I  've  treed  the  critter  —  blow  me  if  I  have  n't ! " 

"  Where  ?  "  asked  Belmonte,  excitedly. 

"  At  an  old  man's  up  the  Hudson.  I  believe  the 
name  is  Rivers,  or  some  thing  like  it." 

"  Was  it  Rivington  ?  " 

"  That 's  the  name." 

Belrnonte  turned  deadly  pale  at  this  announcement. 
"  The  villain/'  thought  he,  "  is  trying  to  supplant  me  in 
my  uncle's  esteem !  They  shall  both  die !  I  have  sworn 
it !  He  shall  die  by  my  own  hand  ! " 

Duggett  then  related  to  him  all  that  he  had  that  day 
seen  and  heard  of  Hastings.  Belmonte  listened  "with 
breathless  interest  to  every  word.  When  he  had 
finished,  Belmonte  muttered,  half  to  himself:  "  He  re- 
mains there  all  night,  eh  ?  He  has  advanced  far  in  the 
old  man's  favor,  to  be  sure ! " 

Mrs.  Duggett,  or  Sally  Jones,  as  she  had  formerly 
been  known,  had  left  her  sleeping  apartmenf,  and  crept 
noiselessly  up  to  a  side  door  opening  into  the  room 
where  they  were  sitting.  She  had  heard  all  the  conver- 
sation that  had  taken  place  between  them,  and,  deter- 
mined to  know  all  that  was  going  on,  she  remained 
with  her  ear  at  the  key-hole,  listening  intently  to  every 
word  that  was  uttered. 

Belmonte  sat  in  silence  for  some  moments,  and  then 
suddenly  rousing  up  as  if  a  new  idea  had  come  to  him, 
he  said :  — 


358  THE  CROOKED   ELM  | 

"  Duggett,  we  must  change  our  plans.  They  must 
both  die  to-night!" 

"  Die  to-night ! "  exclaimed  Duggett,  half  rising  from 
his  chair. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Belmonte,  coolly,  "  they  must  both 
die  to-night.  The  old  man  with  whom  he  is  stopping, 
is  he  of  whom  I  have  spoken  to  you.  We  can  go  there 
and  despatch  them  both  before  morning.  I  know  where 
the  old  man  sleeps,  where  the  servants  sleep,  and  where 
Hastings  sleeps."  He  stopped  suddenly ;  for  he  remem- 
bered the  night  which  he  had  passed  in  his  uncle's 
house.  The  thought  of  again  seeing  the  ghost  which 
had  terrified  him  so  much  unnerved  him.  He  turned 
pale,  and  sat  thinking  a  moment,  and  then  added : 
"  No,  we  will  let  the  old  man  live  a  little  longer.  We 
will,  to-night,  send  Hastings  to  his  accounts.  He  comes 
to  the  city  early  in  the  morning.  He  shall  never  see 
this  city  again !  My  hour  of  revenge  has  come  at  last ! 
We  will  lie  in  wait  for  him." 

"  Where  ?  "  inquired  Duggett. 

"  In  the  woods  this  side  of  Mr.  Kivington's." 

"  That  will  be  dangerous !  We  will  be  detected ! " 
said  Duggett,  in  a  tone  and  manner  that  showed  he  had 
little  heart  -for  the  business. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  dark  glen,  a  mile  or  two  this 
side  of  the  house  where  he  stopped?"  asked  Bel- 
monte. 

"  You  mean  the  one  where  the  large  elm  overhangs 
the  road  ?  " 

"  The  same.  It  is  called  the  '  Crooked  Elm.'  We 
will  secrete  ourselves  there,  and  wait  until  he  passes. 
Have  you  a  fowling-piece  in  the  house  ?  " 

"  I  have  not,"  said  Duggett. 

"  That  is  unfortunate.     I  have  none  either.     I  will 


OR,   LIFE  BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  359 

use  my  pistols.  I  wish  to  have  him  see  me.  The 
hypocrite !  I  will  teach  him  that  I  can  revenge  an  in- 
sult !  Have  you  a  boat  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have  one  a  little  way  above  this,  on  the  Hud- 
son." 

"  Well,  make  haste  and  get  ready.  We  will  float  up 
there  on  the  incoming  tide.  It  will  be  flood  tide  until 
six  o'clock  to-morrow  morning.  Providence  assists  me 
in  seeking  revenge ! " 

Duggett  hesitated. 

"  I  fear  that  we  will  be  found  out.  We  have  n't 
thought  of  the  matter  long  enough." 

"  Never  fear.  You  can  remain  in  the  boat.  I  will 
do  the  business  myself,  and  then  we  can  float  back  to 
the  city." 

They  made  hasty  preparations  and  left  the  house 
together,  and  were  soon  in  the  boat  rowing  up  the 
river. 

Mrs.  Duggett,  or  Sally  Jones,  as  I  will  in  future  call 
her,  listened  attentively  until  Belmonte  and  Duggett 
left  the  house.  Their  conversation  startled  her.  "  What 
does  this  mean  ?  "  thought  she.  "  Hastings !  Going  to 
murder  Hastings !  I  wonder  if  it  is  Lawyer  Hastings, 
who  defended  me.  If  I  thought  it  was  Lawyer  Hast- 
ings, I  would  let  him  know  the  danger  he  is  in.  He 
saved*  me  from  Sing- Sing  once.  One  good  turn  de- 
serves another.  I  never  have  paid  him  for  defending 
me.  I  will  pay  him  now.  He  never  asked  me  any 
thing,  but  I  '11  pay  him.  I  '11  let  him  know  the  danger 
he  is  in.  It  must  be  Lawyer  Hastings !  Duggett  is  to 
remain  in  the  boat  —  the  other  man  don't  know  me. 
I'll  save  Lawyer  Hastings'  life,  for  he  once  pleaded 
hard  for  me."  As  she  muttered  the  above,  she  went 
about  hurriedly  getting  ready  to  set  out  at  once  for  the 
Crooked  Elm.  She  disguised  herself  as  much  as  possi- 


360  THE  CROOKED   ELM; 

ble,  and  was  soon  on  the  road  leading  to  Mr.  Biving- 
ton's.  She  did  not  know  where  the  Crooked  Elm  was  ; 
but  the  description  which  Belmonte  had  given  of  it  led 
her  to  hope  that  she  would  be  able  to  recognize  it  by 
the  large  tree  overhanging  the  road.  It  was  a  long  way 
for  her  to  walk,  and  she  feared  every  moment  that  she 
would  be  too  late.  The  moon,  which  had  given  her  a 
partial  light  at  first,  went  down  before  she  had  gone 
half  the  way.  There  was  nothing  to  light  the  road,  save 
the  thought  that  she  was  doing  a  righteous  act.  She 
had  walked  so  rapidly  at  first,  that  she  began  to  weary. 
There  were  two  or  three  miles  yet  to  go.  She  wiped 
the  perspiration  from  her  face  with  her  apron  and 
walked  on,  looking  out  continually  for  the  large  crooked 
tree  and  the  dark  glen  which  Belmonte  had  mentioned. 
Sometimes  she  feared  that  in  the  darkness  she  had 
passed  the  place,  and  was  on  the  point  of  turning  back. 
Yet  she  pressed  on,  hoping  and  expecting  that  every  hill 
she  descended  would  bring  her  to  the  Crooked  Elm. 
Day  was  just  beginning  to  light  the  East, —  Sally  Jones 
was  on  the  top  of  a  little  hill,  —  before  her,  and  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  hill  she  saw  a  densely  dark  and  thick  wood. 
She  took  courage  and  hurried  on.  "  There  stands  the 
Crooked  Elm,"  she  muttered.  "  I  am  in  time !  I  will 
save  his  life!"  Just  then  she  heard  a  rustling  in  the 
leaves  at  the  side  of  the  road,  and,  as  she  thought,  foot- 
steps approaching  her.  She  uttered  a  wild  scream  of 
"  help,"  and  ran  forward.  She  passed  the  crooked  tree 
and  ascended  the  hill  on  the  other  side  as  fast  as  her 
feet  would  carry  her.  As  soon  as  she  thought  it  safe, 
she  seated  herself  in  a  partially  concealed  place  at  the 
side  of  the  road,  and  waited  for  Hastings.  Belmonte 
had  heard  her  foot-steps,  and,  thinking  they  were  those 
of  Hastings,  he  crept  from  his  hiding-place  and  stepped 
toward  the  road.  Her  scream  undeceived  him,  how- 


OE,   LIFE   BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  361 

ever,  and  thinking  that  it  was  the  voice  of  one  of  Mr. 
Rivington's  servants  he  thought  it  unsafe  for  him  to 
remain  there  longer.  With  a  deep  curse  for  the  mis- 
take he  had  made,  he  hurried  back  to  the  boat,  and 
ordered  Duggett  to  lose  no  time  in  rowing  back  to  the 
city. 

Sally  Jones  looked  anxiously  for  Hastings  until  it 
was  growing  quite  light,  then  fearing  that  she  would  be 
discovered  by  Duggett  if  she  remained  longer,  she  be- 
came impatient  and  alarmed  for  her  own  safety.  "  I 
will  write  him  warning,"  thought  she,  "  and  hand  it  to 
some  one  at  the  house  to  give  to  him."  Mr.  Riving- 
ton's house  was  in  sight.  She  felt  in  her  pocket  for  a 
pencil,  and  found  one ;  but  could  find  no  paper.  This 
puzzled  her.  There  was  no  time  to  lose.  She  thought 
for  a  moment,  and  then,  pulling  her  sun-bonnet  from  her 
head,  tore  from  it  a  piece  of  pasteboard,  and  wrote 
upon  it :  — 

"  MR.  HASTINGS,  —  Do  not  go  to  the  city  alone,  to- 
day. Your  life  will  be  taken  if  you  do.  There  is  a 
man  watching  to  murder  you.  Meet  me  at  the  Crooked 
Elm,  at  twelve  o'clock,  to-night. 

ONE  WHOM  YOU  HAVE  BEFRIENDED." 

"Wnen  she  had  written  the  above,  she  tore  a  piece  of 
lining  from  her  bonnet  and  wrapped  the  pasteboard  care- 
fully in  it ;  then  hurrying  to  the  house,  she  saw  an  old 
man  working  in  a  garden.  She  did  not  hesitate,  but 
walking  up  to  him,  said  :  — 

"  Is  Mr.  Hastings  here  ?  —  Lawyer  Hastings,  I 
mean." 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  old  man. 

"  Will  you  give  him  this  package  ?  " 
31 


362  THE   CROOKED   ELM  | 

She  handed  him  the  uncouth  parcel  and  walked 
away,  leaving  the  old  man  to  wonder  at  her,  without 
the  opportunity  of  asking  a  single  question.  In  return- 
ing to  the  city,  she  avoided  the  Crooked  Elm  by  walk- 
ing a  long  way  round  it.  She  overtook  a  market  wagon 
before  she  had  gone  far,  and  had  an  opportunity  of  rid- 
ing all  the  way  into  the  city.  She  got  home  before 
Duggett  did,  and  thus  avoided  all  suspicion.  A  little 
after  eight  o'clock,  she  told  Duggett  that  she  had  prom- 
ised to  sit  up  with  a  sick  friend's  child  that  night,  and 
readily  obtained  his  consent  to  her  doing  so ;  for  Bel- 
monte  had  promised  to  visit  him  again  at  eleven  o'clock, 
pnd  he  thought  it  just  as  well,  at  least,  that  she  should 
be  absent.  She  made  hasty  preparations,  and  soon  set 
out  to  travel  the  same  road  over  again,  which  she  had 
walked  that  morning.  She  would  have  appointed  some 
other  hour  to  meet  Hastings  ;  but  she  knew  of  no  other 
that  she  could  surely  and  safely  leave  home.  She  feared 
that  she  would  be  watched,  if  she  attempted  to  see  him 
in  the  daytime.  She  had  gone  but  a  few  blocks,  when,  on 
turning  a  corner  in  the  very  heart  of  the  Five  Points,  a 
little  girl  rushed  wildly  from  an  old  ricketyframe  house, 
crying  and  shrieking  as  though  her  life  was  being  taken. 
Immediately  a  half  drunken  ragged  woman  issued  from 
the  same  door,  with  a  rolling  pin  raised  in  her  hand  as 
if  to  strike  her.  The  child  clung  to  Sally  Jones,  and 
implored  her  protection.  Sally  was  naturally  a  kind- 
hearted  woman,  and  she  stood  between  the  little  girl 
and  the  enraged  woman,  and  tried  to  reason  with  the 
hag.  She  had  spoken  scarcely  a  word,  however,  when 
the  woman  seized  her  by  the  hair  and  threw  her  to  the 
pavement.  The  little  girl  in  the  mean  time  ran  away. 
Sally  cried  for  help,  and  the  drunken  woman  continued 
beating,  kicking,  and  scratching  her.  A  crowd  of  Five 


OK,   LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  363 

Pointers  soon  gathered  around  to  witness  the  "  fun,"  as 
they  called  it.  A  police  officer  soon  entered  the  ring, 
and,  separating  the  two  women,  led  them  both  off  to  the 
Tombs,  notwithstanding  the  strenuous  and  earnest  re- 
monstrances of  Sally,  who  continually  asserted  her  in- 
nocence. He  would  not  listen  to  any  thing  she  said ; 
but  locked  her  and  the  enraged  woman  up  in  the  same 
cell,  to  remain  there  together  until  morning.  Sally  was 
sadly  dispirited,  but  there  was  no  way  of  getting  out 
that  night ;  so  after  shedding  a  few  tears  she  resigned 
herself  unwillingly  to  what  seemed  to  be  her  fate. 

When  Hastings  read  what  Sally  Jones  had  written 
on  the  pasteboard,  he  knew  not  what  to  think.  He 
questioned  Mr.  Rivington  respecting  the  appearance  of 
the  person  who  had  brought  it  there  ;  but  the  old  man 
could  tell  him  nothing  which  enabled  him  to  form  any 
idea  as  to  who  the  woman  was.  He  thought  of  setting 
out  at  once  in  pursuit  of  her  ;  but  on  looking,  she  was 
nowhere  to  be  seen.  He  did  not  tell  Mr.  Rivington 
the  contents  of  the  package. 

"  I  must  go  to  the  city  immediately,"  said  he  to  the 
old  man.  "*Can  you  send  your  carriage  in  with  me  ?  " 
--•  "  Certainly,  with  pleasure,"  replied  the  old  man,  who 
at  once  ordered  it  to  be  brought.  The  carriage  soon 
came,  and  Hastings  set  out  for  the  city,  full  of  conjec- 
ture as  to  the  meaning  of  the  strange  and  startling  note 
which  had  been  written  and  brought  him  so  mysteri- 
ously. Sometimes,  as  he  rode  along,  he  muttered  :  "  It 
is  all  a  hoax  got  up  by  some  one  of  my  friends  to  excite 
my  curiosity.  I  will  dismiss  it  from  my  thoughts."  He 
could  not  avoid  looking  to  the  sides  of  the  road  as  he 
passed  some  more  than  usually  dark  and  wooded  spot, 
to  see  if  he  could  get  a  glimpse  of  the  person  alluded 
to  in  the  note.  At  other  times,  he  thought  it  might  be 
a  trap  to  ensnare  him.  Belmonte  more  than  once  en- 


364  THE   CKOOKED   ELM  J 

tered  his  mind ;  yet  he  believed  him  to  be  in  Europe, 
and  he  ceased  to  connect  him  with  the  strange  affair. 
He  arrived  safe  in  the  city,  and  resolved  to  dismiss  the 
subject  from  his  mind.  "  I  will  not,"  thought  he,  "  do  as 
the  writer  requests.  I  will  neither  be  hoaxed  nor  entrap- 
ped by  any  one  knowingly."  Thus  did  he  reason  as  he 
went  to  his  office.  On  looking  over  his  letters  that 
morning,  his  eyes  lit  upon  one  mailed  in  England.  He 
knew  the  handwriting,  and  hastily  breaking  the  seal, 
read :  — 

"  DEAREST  WILLIAM,  —  I  cannot  resist  writing  to 
warn  you  of  the  danger  you  are  in,  although  I  am 
threatened  with  ruin  if  I  do.  Be  on  your  guard  !  He 
has  returned  to  New  York !  I  am  led  to  believe  from 
some  things  he  said,  that  he  has  gone  back  to  be  re- 
venged on  you !  I  implore  you  to  take  warning  and 
avoid  the  threatened  danger!  I  am  ever  thinking  of 
you,  ever  loving  you  as  in  times  past.  Oh  that  this  may 
reach  you  in  time  to  save  you  from  harm !  Do  not 
write  to  me.  He  Will  intercept  your  letters.  May 
heaven  protect  you.  Ever  thine,  • 

"CORNELIA."    * 

This  letter  Hastings  read  over  and  over  again.  It 
brought  to  him  the  devotion  of  a  heart  wholly  his  own, 
as  also  intelligence  of  an  alarming  nature.  "  I  will  be 
prepared  for  him,"  thought  he.  "  I  will  hunt  him  out 
of  his  concealment,  and  afford  him  an  opportunity  to 
be  revenged."  The  mysterious  letter  which  he  had  re- 
ceived that  morning  suddenly  came  to  his  mind.  He 
took  it  from  his  pocket  and  examined  it  carefully.  He 
did  not  know  the  handwriting.  "  There  is  something  in 
it,"  thought  he,  "  more  than  I  have  been  willing  to  be- 
lieve. It  is  a  trap  to  ensnare  me !  The  Crooked  Elm ! 


OR,   LIFE  BY  THE  WAT-SIDE.  365 

Why  ask  me  to  go  to  so  secluded  a  place  ?  Why  not 
come  here  and  give  me  warning  ? "  He  thought  and 
pondered  long  over  the  contents  of  the  two  letters 
before  him.  They  both  warned  him  of  danger.  The 
honesty  of  one  he  did  not  question,  but  the  other 
troubled  his  brain.  "  A  woman  brought  it  to  me ! 
How  should  a  woman  be  connected  with  Belmonte  in 
his  wicked  purposes  ?  "  Still  more  did  he  wonder  how 
any  woman  should  know  any  thing  of  his  own  danger. 
He  thought  of  Mrs.  Delacy,  and  looked  again  at  the 
writing  on  the  pasteboard,  but  it  was  not  hers.  "  This 
may  be  a  friendly  warning,"  he  at  length  said,  as  he  got 
up  and  paced  his  office  floor  excitedly.  "  I  will  solve 
the  mystery!  I  will  go  to  the  Crooked  Elm!  This 
doubt  and  uncertainty  is  worse  than  death !  I  will  go 
alone,  but  not  unprepared  for  danger ! " 

The  locality  known  as  the  Crooked  Elm  was  a  lonely 
and  densely  wooded  ravine  or  glen,  lying  near  the  Hud- 
son River.  Many  legends  were  related  of  it  by  the  old 
Dutch  settlers  of  New  York.  Ghosts  had  been  seen  there. 
It  was  a  place  dreaded  by  children,  and  those  many  de- 
scendants of  the  Dutch  in  and  about  New  York  city, 
who  believed  in  ghosts,  witches,  hobgoblins,  etc.  Es- 
pecially was  it  a  place  to  be  avoided  after  dark.  About 
eleven  o'clock  that  night  Hastings  was  walking  thought- 
fully along  the  road  leading  to  the  Crooked  Elm.  He  had 
not  much  further  to  go ;  he  was  rising  the  hill,  on  the 
opposite  side  of  which  lay  the  haunted  glen,  which  was 
to  determine  his  fate.  He  pulled  his  watch  from  his 
pocket  when  on  the  summit,  and  held  it  up  to  the 
moonlight  to  see  the  time.  It  was  too  dark  —  he  could 
not  tell  the  hour.  "  It  must  be  near  midnight,"  thought 
he,  as  he  stood  a  moment  looking  down  into  the  dark 
ravine  before  him.  His  heart  beat  quick  as  he  started 
31* 


366  THE  CROOKED   ELM; 

to  descend  the  hill,  not  that  he  was  a  coward,  but  the 
doubt,  uncertainty,  and  darkness  made  him  nervous. 
He  walked  on  with  a  firm  and  cautious  step,  watching 
the  sides  of  the  road  attentively  until  he  had  reached  the 
large  crooked  elm  overhanging  the  road.  "  If  my 
enemy  is  here,"  thought  he,  "it  is  probable  he  is  con- 
cealed behind  the  trunk  of  this  tree."  He  pulled  his 
pistol  from  his  pocket,  and  walked  round  the  huge 
trunk,  but  without  seeing  any  one.  "  I  will  seat  my- 
self by  this  tree,"  he  muttered,  "  and  wait  the  unravel- 
ling of  the  plot.  He  kept  the  pistol  in  his  hand,  and 
looked  from  side  to  side  to  avoid  surprise.  All  was 
dark  and  still  as  the  grave,  —  no  one  appeared.  The 
denouement  was  not  to  be  that  night.  He  continued 
with  his  back  to  the  tree  for  two  or  three  hours,  then 
getting  up,  he  walked  back  and  forth  past  the  crooked 
elm  a  few  times ;  but  seeing  no  one  he  reseated  him- 
self. "  I  will  remain  a  little  longer,"  thought  he,  "  al- 
though I  am  satisfied  that  the  note  which  I  received 
this  morning  was  a  hoax."  He  banished  all  fear,  and 
fell  into  a  profound  reverie.  All  his  past  life  passed 
before  him  in  review.  "  Like  this  gnarly  and  crooked 
tree  which  overshadows  me,"  he  muttered,  as  he  was 
about  leaving,  "  I  have  lived  to  no  purpose.  My  life  is 
full  of '  mistakes,  errors,  and  crimes  ;  I  will  reform. 
Here  in  this  solitude,  where  no  eye  sees  me,  save  His 
who  rules  the  universe,  I  solemnly  vow  to  live  an  hon- 
est and  upright  life  in  future.  The  Crooked  Elm  shall 
be  my  starting  point."  Day  was  breaking  when  he 
arrived  at  his  hotel  in  the  city. 

About  nine  o'clock  that  morning,  Sally  Jones,  with 
some  twenty  or  thirty  others  of  both  sexes,  and  almost 
of  all  ages,  was  marched  into  the  Police  Justice's  office, 
and,  after  waiting  some  two  or  three  hours  until  her 


OR,   LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  367 

turn  came,  was  duly  tried  and  fined  five  dollars  for  dis- 
turbing the  peace  of  the  Five  Points.  In  case  the  fine 
was  not  paid,  she  was  to  be  imprisoned  for  twelve  days. 
She  sent  for  Duggett  and  paid  the  fine,  and  was  left  to 
go  at  large  again  about  one  o'clock  that  afternoon. 
She  lost  no  time,  but  stole  away  from  the  house  as 
soon  as  she  could  do  so  safely,  and  started  in  search  of 
Hastings'  office.  It  is  cheering,  as  we  pass  through  life, 
to  see  in  the  most  depraved  outcasts,  sparks  of  generous 
and  noble  feeling.  It  lends  encouragement  to  the  mis- 
sionary, and  gives  promise  of  a  better  future.  Hast- 
ings had  defended  Sally  Jones  some  years  before,  when 
she  was  indicted  for  crime,  the  punishment  for  which 
was  the  state  prison  for  some  years.  He  believed  her 
innocent,  and  by  his  exertions  succeeded  in  getting  her 
acquitted.  He  neither  expected  nor  ever  asked  any  pay 
for  his  services.  She  was  penniless,  and  one  whom  the 
world  called  an  outcast.  She  was  now  anxious  to 
show  her  gratitude  to  him  for  what  he  had  done  for 
her.  She  was  not  long  in  finding  his  office,  and,  after 
waiting  an  hour  or  more  for  Hastings  to  get  through 
talking  with  some  clients,  she  was  shown  in  by  Rolin,  the 
clerk,  to  where  he  was  sitting.  Hastings  did  not  recol- 
lect her  countenance. 

"Be  seated,"  he  said,  as  he  commenced  folding  some 
papers  which  lay  open  on  the  desk  before  him. 

"  I  suppose,"  commenced  Sally,  "  that  you  have  for- 
gotten Sally  Jones,  whom  you  once  pleaded  for?  I 
have  n't  forgot  you." 

"  Oh,  I  remember,"  said  Hastings,  smiling.  "  In 
trouble  again,  Sally  ?  " 

"  No,  I  'm  not  exactly  in  trouble  on  my  own  ac- 
count." 

"  You  have  n't  come  to  pay  me,  I  suppose,  Sally  ? 


368  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

That  would  be  truly  an  unexpected  pleasure."  This  he 
said  laughingly. 

"  Yes,  I  have  come  to  pay  you,  Mr.  Hastings." 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  in  surprise,  and  then 
»aid :  — 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  so  honest ;  but  what  you  owe 
me,  if  unpaid,  will  not  make  me  much  poorer  than  I 
am.  I  have  long  since  forgotten  the  debt.  You  can 
keep  your  money  ;  it  will  assist  you,  I  hope,  to  live  an 
honest  life." 

"  It  is  not  money  I  'm  going  to  pay  you,"  said  Sally, 
as  a  tear  stole  into  her  eye.  "  I  fear  you  are  in  danger, 
Mr.  Hastings." 

Had  she  fired  a  pistol,  at  him,  she  could  not  have 
startled  him  more.  The  mysterious  letter  flashed  upon 
his  mind. 

"  Then  you  wrote  me  that  note  yesterday  morning  ?  " 

"  Did  you  get  it  ?  "  asked  Sally  eagerly. 

«  Yes," 

"  I  am  so  glad ! "  exclaimed  she.  "  It  saved  your 
life!" 

«  You  talk  to  me  in  riddles,  Sally.     Explain." 

"  There  are  two  men  plotting  against  you,  Mr.  Hast- 
ings. Will  you  promise  not  to  harm  one  of  them,  if  I 
tell  you  all  that  I  know  about  them  ?  " 

»  That  would  be  unreasonable,  Sally." 

"  But  I  cannot  tell  you,  unless  you  promise." 

"  I  cannot  promise  you  that  I  think  I  already  know 
whom  you  mean." 

"What!  You  don't  suspect  him!"  said  Sally,  be- 
traying herself  almost  in  her  fright. 

Hastings  saw  the  advantage  he  had  gained,  and 
answered :  — 

"  Yes,  he  is  suspected" 


OK,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  369 

"  You  will  not  injure  him,  will  you,  Mr.  Hastings  ? 
He  is  not  so  much  to  blame  as  the  other  man." 

"  They  must  both  be  punished,"  answered  he. 

His  manner  was  so  cool  and  deliberate  that  Sally 
thought  he  knew  whom  she  referred  to,  and  bursting 
into  tears,  she  exclaimed :  "  Saul  is  not  so  much  to 
blame  as  the  other  man." 

"  Ah ! "  thought  Hastings,  "  I  have  a  clue  to  this  vil- 
lainy. I  will  learn  the  extent  of  it."  He  gave  Sally  no 
time  to  reflect,  but  said  :  — 

"  What  do  you  know  of  this  plot  against  my  life  ? 
You  have  proven  yourself  my  friend,  and  if  you  tell  me 
honestly  all  you  know  about  it,  I  may  spare  the  man 
whom  you  so  unreasonably  plead  for.  Who  is  this 
man,  whom  you  wish  me  to  be  merciful  to  beyond  his 
deserving  ?  " 

"  Saul  Duggett,"  replied  she.     «  I  live  with  him." 

"  Live  with  such  a  man ! "  exclaimed  Hastings. 

She  hid  her  face  in  her  apron  and  wept,  but  made  no 
answer.  He  saw  there  was  little  use  to  reason  with 
her. 

"  Well,  Sally,  tell  me  all  about  this  villainy." 

She  then  related  all  the  conversation  which  she  had 
heard  between  Belmonte  and  Duggett — spoke  of  her 
visiting  the  Crooked  Elm,  and  the  reason  why  she  had 
sent  "him  such  a  singular  note  of  warning.  She  also 
told  him  why  she  had  not  met  him  there  at  the  time 
appointed.  Hastings  could  not  refrain  from  smiling  at 
her  recital  of  her  own  grievances,  in  being  carried  to 
the  Tombs  and  fined  for  disturbing  the  peace.  When 
she  had  finished,  he  asked  :  — 

"  Did  you  see  the  man  who  came  to  your  house  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  saw  him  through  the  key-hole.  He  had 
black  hair." 

«  Was  he  tall  ?  " 


370  THE   CROOKED   ELM. 

"  I  can't  say.     He  was  sitting  down." 

He  learned  all  he  could  from  Sally,  and  then  told  her 
to  keep  diligent  watch  on  all  Duggett's  movements,  and 
report  to  him. 

"  I  will  spare  Duggett,  for  your  sake,"  he  added ;  "  but 
I  advise  you  to  leave  him,  and  live  in  a  more  honest 
and  respectable  way."  She  made  him  no  answer,  save 
that  she  would  keep  him  informed  of  all  that  came  to 
her  knowledge.  When  she  rose  to  leave,  Hastings  re- 
quested her  to  accept  some  money,  but  she  refused,  say- 
ing :  "  I  can  act  honestly  sometimes  without  pay.  I 
will  serve  you  in  this  to  the  extent  of  my  ability ;  for 
you  once  pleaded  for  me."  When  she  had  gone,  Hast- 
ings muttered,  "  I  am  indebted  to  this  woman  for  my 
life.  I  will  never  disbelieve  in  an  overruling  Providence 
again.  She,  whom  I  once  defended,  and  whom  I 
more  than  ever  believe  innocent  of  the  crime  for  which 
she  was  indicted,  now,  by  one  of  the  strange  and  almost 
miraculous  chances,  which  frequently  happen,  is  the 
means  of  saving  my  life.  Her  noble  conduct  shall 
not  go  unrewarded.  His  first  thoughts,  when  she  had 
left,  were  those  of  gratitude  to  her ;  his  second,  how  he 
could  meet  and  punish  the  assassins  who  were  plotting 
to  take  his  life.  "  I  must,"  thought  he,  "  take  immedi- 
ate measures  to  save  old  Mr.  Rivington.  He  must 
be  protected  at  every  risk,  for  he  is  the  benefactor  of 
my  child.  I  will  not  expose  Belmonte's  infamous  de- 
signs upon  his  uncle,  unless  it  becomes  necessary.  It 
would  be  a  stain  upon  Cornelia's  name.  No,  for  her 
sake  I  will  spare  her  worthless  husband.  Her  letter  of 
love  and  warning  strengthened  him  to  meet  boldly  the 
plots  against  his  life. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 


THE  next  day  Sally  Jones  was  at  Hastings'  office  at 
least  an  hour  before  he  came.  As  soon  as  he  entered, 
she  said  :  —  * 

"  They  have  gone  up  to  Mr.  Rivington's  in  a  boat 
They  started  before  daylight  this  morning." 

This  intelligence  alarmed  Hastings.  He  had  intended 
to  bring  Mr.  Rivington  to  the  city  for  a  week  or  two, 
and  was  going  for  him  that  very  afternoon. 

"  I  overheard  what  they  said,"  continued  Sally.  "  The 
man  with  the  black  hair  said  they  would  dress  them- 
selves as  sportmen  —  that  he  had  the  dresses  all  ready 
—  and  then  go  in  the  boat  up  to  his  uncle's.  '  There 
is,'  said  he,  *  a  little  wood,  on  a  hillock,  near  the  river. 
The  old  man  is  in  the  habit  of  going  there  every  day 
to  visit  a  grave  that  lies  near.  We  will  conceal  our- 
selves in  that  wood,  and  when  he  passes  by,  fire  upon 
him,  and  then  take  to  our  boat.'  " 

"  Are  you  sure  they  left  as  agreed  ?  " 

"  Yes.  As  soon  as  Saul  left  the  house  I  hurried  to 

Dock,  where  he  keeps  his  boat,  and,  concealing 

myself  behind  a  pile  of  lumber,  saw  them  come,  both 
dressed  in  gray  clothes,  and  get  into  the  boat,  and  then 
row  out  into  the  river." 

Hastings  put  the  name  of  the  dock  down  in  his  mem- 
orandum-book, thanked  Sally  for  what  she  had  told 

(371) 


372  THE  CKOOKED   ELM, 

him,  and  then  left  his  office.  "  There  is  no  time  to  be 
lost,"  he  thought ;  "  I  must  go  at  once  to  the  old  man's 
protection."  He  hurried  home  —  ordered  his  carriage, 
and  was  soon  on  his  way  to  Mr.  Rivington's.  It  was  a 
great  relief  to  his  mind  to  see  the  old  man  out  in  his 
garden,  long  before  the  carriage  reached  the  house. 

"  I  have  come,"  said  Hastings,  approaching  the  old 
man,  "  to  take  you  for  a  drive." 

They  both  got  into  the  carriage,  and  Hastings  ordered 
his  coachman  to  drive  towards  the  city. 

"  I  should  like  to  have  you  go  and  spend  a  few  days 
with  me,  Mr.  Rivington,"  said  Hastings,  as  soon  as  they 
were  seated.  "  The  change  will  do  you  good."  He 
could  not,  by  any  inducement,  get  the  old  man  to  con- 
sent to  leave  home  even  for  a  few  days. 

"  I  am  so  much  attached  to  home,"  said  the  old  man, 
"  that  I  should  feel  lost  were  I  absent  from  it.  You 
must  not  ask  me  to  leave  it." 

"  I  have  special  reasons  for  wishing  you  to  accompany 
me  to  the  city  this  morning.  They  are  important  rea- 
sons too."  Hastings  said  this  with  a  serious  counte- 
nance. The  old  man  looked  at  him,  wonderingly,  and 
said:  — 

"  Please  explain  yourself,  Mr.  Hastings." 

"  Can  you  not  trust  me  for  once,"  said  Hastings,  "  and 
believe  that  I  would  not  urge  you  to  go  with  me  against 
your  inclinations  if  I  did  not  think  it  necessary  that  you 
should  go  ?  " 

"  I  could  trust  you,  Mr.  Hastings,  but  there  is  some- 
thing mysterious  in  what  you  say.  I  scarcely  know 
what  to  think." 

Hastings  did  not  wish  to  reveal  to  the  old  man  the 
reason  why  he  wished  him  to  leave  home  for  a  few  days. 
He  feared  the  shock  would  be  too  great  for  him. 

"  You  will  trust  the  father  of  little  Flora,  will  you  not, 


OR,  LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  373 

Mr.  Rivington,  when  he  tells  you  that  it  is  absolutely 
necessary  for  your  safety  to  go  with  me  into  the  city  this 
morning  ?  " 

"  What !  What  do  you  mean  ?  Necessary  for  my 
safety !  "  The  old  man  looked  steadily  at  Hastings  for 
a  moment,  and  then  said  :  — 

"  I  cannot  go  with  you  unless  you  explain  yourself 
more  fully.  You  startle  me." 

"  I  will  tell  you  all  when  you  are  more  calm,"  said 
Hastings,  without  changing  his  countenance.  He  saw 
that  the  old  man  distrusted  him.  Yet  he  feared  to  tell 
him  what  he  knew  would  so  much  shock  his  feelings. 

"  I  can  listen  to  it  now,"  said  Mr.  Rivington,  still 
showing  in  his  countenance  the  alarmed  state  of  his 
mind. 

"  I  know  not  why,"  said  Hastings,  "  I  should  withhold 
from  you  the  reasons  why  I  think  it  necessary  for  you  to 
go  with  me  to  New  York.  You  must  prepare  yourself 
to  listen  to  what  will  surprise  and  shock  you.  I  hurried 
to  you  to-day  to  save  you  from  a  threatened  danger." 

"  I  cannot  understand  you  yet.  What  danger  threatens 
me?" 

"  Calm  yourself,  while  I  relate  what  I  have  seen  and 
heard."  The  old  man  listened  attentively  while  Hast- 
ings told  him  what  he  had  heard  from  Sally  Jones. 
When  he  had  finished,  he  added,  "  I  have  reason  to  be- 
live  that  one  of  the  men  is  your  nephew,  Belmonte." 

"  Impossible !  I  will  not  believe  it !  "  exclaimed  the  old 
man.  "  Why  do  you  think  one  of  them  is  my  nephew?  " 

"  I  have  other  reasons  than  those  given  for  believing 
so." 

"  I  will  not  believe  he  is  here,  unless  I  see  him  with 
my  own  eyes." 

"  I  will  give  you  an  opportunity  of  seeing  the  two 
32 


374  THE   CROOKED  ELM; 

men  of  whom  I  speak,  I  hope,  before  many  days.  It  is 
necessary  that  we  should  counteract  them." 

"  You  must  be  mistaken ;  Belmonte  is  in  Europe.  I 
will  not  think  him  so  base." 

They  had  now  passed  the  limits  of  the  old  man's 
usual  drive,  and  he  proposed  returning. 

"  No,"  said  Hastings,  "  I  will  send  for  what  things  you 
require.  It  is  better  that  we  keep  on.  I  wish  to  lose 
no  time  in  preparing  for  these  men,  whoever  they  are." 

Mr.  Rivington  consented  to  Hastings'  wishes,  and 
the  carriage  proceeded  on.  When  they  arrived  at  the 
city,  Hastings  left  the  old  man  at  the  hotel  where  he 
himself  was  stopping,  and  then  hurried  down  town. 
He  concealed  himself  near  the  dock  which  Sally  had 
mentioned,  and  watched  attentively  to  see  if  Belmonte 
and  Duggett  would  return  that  day.  He  had  been  there 
several  hours.  Night  was  inclosing  the  city  in  its  dark 
mantle.  Hastings  left  his  hiding-place,  and  crept 
close  up  to  the  dock  where  they  would  probably 
land,  and  concealing  himself  between  two  large  piles  of 
lumber.  He  waited  patiently  there  until  late  at  night, 
when  he  saw  a  smah1  dark  object  moving  stealthily  to- 
wards him  on  the  smooth  surface  of  the  river.  It  drew 
up  at  the  foot  of  a  flight  of  dock  steps,  and  two  men 
soon  walked  up  within  a  few  feet  of  where  Hastings 
lay,  and  stood  a  moment  in  conversation. 

"  It  will  not  do  for  us  to  walk  down  town  together," 
said  a  voice  which  Hastings  readily  recognized.  "  Do 
you  watch  him  to-morrow,  and  let  me  know  all  that 
transpires.  I  wish  particularly  to  know  where  he 
spends  his  evenings." 

"  Very  well,"  replied  Duggett ;  "  but  I  begin  to  wish 
this  business  off  my  hands.  It  hangs  fire  a  tarnation 
sight  too  long." 


OB,  LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  375 

"  Watch  him  closely,"  said  Belmonte,  encouragingly, 
"  and  before  another  week  we  will  have  finished  the  busi- 
ness, and  you  will  be  in  possession  of  the  money  I 
promised.  Mind  that  you  are  at  the  hotel  early." 

"  Yes !  I  understand  !  "  said  Duggett. 

"  I  will  visit  you  to-morrow  night  at  eleven  again," 
said  Belmonte,  as  they  separated.  Duggett  started  down 
the  river,  and  Belmonte  proceeded  up  into  the  heart  of 
the  city,  on  one  of  the  cross  streets,  followed  by  Hastings, 
who  kept  in  sight  of  him  until  he  entered  the  obscure 
hotel  where  he  was  stopping.  "  I  have  tracked  you  to 
your  den  at  last,"  thought  Hastings.  "  I  will  keep  an 
eye  on  your  movements  in  future."  Hastings  hurried 
home,  as  soon  as  he  saw  Belmonte  enter  the  door,  and 
found  old  Mr.  Rivington  in  a  high  state  of  nervous  ex- 
citement. His  presence  soon  quieted  him,  and  they 
began  to  lay  plans  for  future  operations.  Hastings  told 
the  old  man  where  he  had  been,  and  what  he  had  seen, 
but  he  failed  to  convince  him  that  Belmonte  was  in 
the  city. 

"  They  meet,"  said  Hastings,  "  to-morrow  night,  at  a 
house  in  the  Five  Points." 

"  We  will  go  there  and  surprise  them  then,"  replied 
old  Mr.  Rivington,  quite  spiritedly. 

"  That  is  what  I  would  have  proposed  myself,"  said 
Hastings,  "  but  I  feared  to  place  you  in  danger.  You 
are  too  old  to  come  in  contact  with  desperate  men." 

"  Whoever  they  may  be,"  said  the  old  man,  in  the 
same  bold  and  determined  voice,  "  I  do  not  fear  to  meet 
them.  I  have  always,  during  my  somewhat  long  life, 
found  that  great  criminals  were  great  cowards." 

"  That  may  be  true,  Mr.  Rivington.  Yet,  men  made 
desperate  from  fear  sometimes  exhibit  deeds  of  daring 
and  bravery  that  seem  almost  marvellous." 

"  There  is  no  use  arguing  the  question  with  me,  Mr. 


376  THE  CROOKED   ELM, 

Hastings,"  said  the  old  man,  "  if  your  fears  are  on  my 
account.  I  fear  no  danger  from  meeting  them  thus 
boldly  and  unexpectedly :  yet,"  continued  he,  changing 
his  tone,  "  if,  as  you  believe,  my  nephew  is  engaged  in 
such  a  base  plot  against  my  life,  I  will  for  my  own  and 
his  friend's  sake,  keep  the  matter  from  the  public.  I 
do  not  wish  to  disgrace  his  relatives.  I  had  sooner 
die  than  have  such  a  stain  attached  to  his  family." 

"  I  am  just  as  anxious  to  keep  the  matter  quiet  as  you 
are,"  said  Hastings,  "  and  will  do  all  in  my  power,  con- 
sistent with  your  and  my  own  safety,  to  keep  their  crime 
from  the  public  ear." 

"  Shall  we  go  there  to-morrow  night  and  meet  them  ?  " 
asked  the  old  man. 

"  Let  us  leave  the  question  undecided  until  to-mor- 
row," said  Hastings.  "  I  will  see  and  learn  more,  if  pos- 
sible, between  this  and  the  time  they  are  to  meet." 

"  But  they  will  be  watching  you  to-morrow.  You 
must  do  nothing  to  excite  suspicion." 

"  Trust  me  for  that,"  said  Hastings. 

They  talked  a  long  time  over  their  plans,  and  then 
retired  to  think  of  them,  for  neither  closed  his  eyes  in 
sleep  that  night 

The  next  morning  Hastings  went  to  his  office  as 
usual.  He  saw  Duggett  watching  him,  but  he  pretended 
not  to  notice  him.  "  I  must  see  Sally  Jones,"  thought  he, 
"  between  this  and  dark."  But  how  to  escape  Duggett 
was  the  difficult  question.  He  glanced  his  eye  out  of 
his  office  window  several  times,  and  saw  him  walking 
slowly  by,  with  his  eyes  turned  towards  the  door  of  the 
building.  After  a  great  deal  of  thinking,  Hastings  re- 
membered a  private  entrance  leading  into  the  street  at 
the  back  of  the  building.  He  no  sooner  thought  of  this 
outlet,  than  he  cautiously  left  by  it,  and  hastened  to 
Duggett's  house.  Sally  was  frightened  when  she 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  377 

opened  the  door  and  let  him  in.  She  feared  that  Dug- 
gett  would  come  home  and  find  Hastings  there. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,  Sally,"  said  Hastings,  reading 
her  thoughts.  "  There  is  no  danger.  Duggett  is  down 
at  my  office  watching  for  me.  He  did  not  see  me  leave 
there.  They  are  to  meet  here  at  eleven  o'clock  to-night. 
Have  you  a  place  where  you  can  conceal  another  man 
and  myself  ?  I  wish  to  hear  what  they  have  to  say." 

"  You  are  not  going  to  bring  the  police ! "  said  Sally, 
terrified. 

"  No !  You  need  not  fear.  Saul  shall  not  be  dis- 
turbed by  the  police." 

"  But,"  replied  she,  "  Saul  will  know  that  I  let  you  in, 
and  he  will  take  my  life  for  betraying  him." 

"Never  fear;  we  will  only  listen  to  them  and  see 
what  their  plans  are." 

"  Here  is  a  closet,"  she  said,  "  near  the  door.  Do  you 
think  you  could  get  into  that  ?  " 

He  stepped  into  it  and  said,  "  This  is  just  the  thing ! 
and  so  near  the  door !  Capital !  It  seems  to  have  been 
made  for  the  purpose." 

"  But  you  promise,  Mr.  Hastings,  not  to  expose  Saul?  " 

"  I  will  not  have  him  punished,  if  it  is  possible  to 
avoid  it." 

"  Then  you  can  come,"  said  she.  "  But  how  will  you 
get  here  without  being  discovered  ?  " 

"  I  will  be  here  in  less  than  an  hour.  Saul  is  watch- 
ing for  me  down  town,  and  will  be  likely  to  remain 
there  a  long  time  yet.  If  he  comes  before  I  return, 
hang  this  handkerchief  in  the  window."  He  threw  her 
a  white  handkerchief  as  he  spoke. 

"  I  will  do  so,"  said  Sally,  "  or  will  in  some  way  try 
to  let  you  know  that  he  is  here." 

Hastings  then  left,  and  soon  returned  with  Mr.  Riv- 
32* 


378  THE   CROOKED   ELM  | 

ington.  They  secreted  themselves  in  the  closet,  and 
waited  patiently  for  eleven  o'clock.  It  was  a  tedious 
undertaking,  for  it  was  not  yet  one  o'clock.  They  were 
both  prepared  for  defence,  if  necessary;  and  both  were 
resolved  to  meet  Belmonte  and  Duggett  face  to  face.  A 
chair  had  been  so  arranged  that  the  old  man  could  sit 
down;  but  Hastings  remained  standing  during  the  long 
hours  which  preceded  the  time  appointed  for  their  meet- 
ing. About  ten  o'clock  they  heard  some  one  enter  the 
house  and  walk  heavily  over  the  bare  floor  past  the  closet 
where  they  were.  They  heard  a  voice  addressing 
Sally:  — 

"  Hurry  arid  get  my  supper;  I'm  tarnation  hungry." 

Just  then  the  old,  clock  on  the  mantel-piece  struck 
ten  —  "  Blow  me,  if  it  is  n't  ten  o'clock !  1  have  a  friend 
coming  here  at  eleven ;  so  hurry  your  stumps." 

The  supper  was  soon  prepared  and  eaten,  and  Sally 
was  ordered  to  her  sleeping  apartment. 

As  eleven  o'clock  approached,  Hastings  and  the  old 
man  grew  a  little  nervous.  Their  plan  was  to  leave 
the  closet  when  Belmonte  should  come  —  thinking  the 
noise  which  would  be  made  by  him  in  coming  in 
would  prevent  him  and  Duggett  from  hearing  them.  At 
length  they  heard  a  loud  double  knock.  They  both 
instinctively  started.  It  was  like  the  signal  for  battle. 
They  nerved  themselves  for  the  occasion. 

As  soon  as  they  heard  the  bolt  drawn  and  the  door 
opened,  they  crept  noiselessly  from  the  closet  and 
crouched  themselves  by  the  door  which  Sally  had 
pointed  out  to  them.  Hastings  looked  through  the  key- 
hole and  saw  the  two  come  into  the  dimly  lighted  room, 
and  seat  themselves  by  the  old  table.  The  room  had 
the  same  spectral  appearance  that  it  had  on  the  night 
of  Belmonte's  first  visit  A  bottle  and  two  tumblers 


OR,  LIFE   BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  379 

were  on  the  table.  Duggett  poured  some  liquor  into  the 
glasses,  and  asked  Belmonte  to  drink ;  but  he  declined, 
saying,  as  before,  that  he  had  just  been  drinking.  The 
old  man  heard  their  voices,  and  readily  recognized  one 
of  the  speakers.  He  sat  in  silence,  however,  notwith- 
standing his  agitated  state  of  mind,  and  listened  atten- 
tively to  what  they  said. 

"  What  news,  Duggett  ?  "  inquired  Belmonte. 

"  None  worth  mentioning.  The  critter  escaped  me 
somehow." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"I  mean  that  I  followed  him  to  his  office,  and  that 
I  lost  sight  of  him  then." 

"  How  could  you  lose  sight  of  him,  if  you  watched 
attentively  ?  "  asked  Belmonte  impatiently. 

"  Blow  me,  if  I  know  how !  I  don't  think  the  critter 
left  his  office  at  all  —  I  watched  the  door  till  night,  and 
then  went  straight  to  his  office  and  found  it  locked." 

"  I  think  you  were  not  attending  to  your  business," 
said  Belmonte,  quite  angrily.  Duggett' s  eyes  flashed 
fire  for  a  moment,  which  so  terrified  Belmonte  that 
he  deemed  it  necessary  to  be  more  cautious  in  future ; 
and  he  immediately  qualified  what  he  had  said  by 
adding :  "  I  do  not  wish  to  blame  you ;  but  this  busi- 
ness is  progressing  too  slowly  —  they  should  both  have 
been  in  their  graves  before  this." 

"  I  cannot  help  the  delay,"  said  Duggett,  sternly  — 
"I  have  done  my  part  of  the  business  faithfully.  I 
am  gitting  tarnation  tired  of  it.  I  wish  I  never  had 
undertaken  it." 

"  You  do  not  hesitate  now,  when  the  danger  threat- 
ens, do  you  ?  "  said  Belmonte. 

"I  do  not  hesitate  on  account  of  danger,  but  it 
hangs  fire  too  long.  I  fear  I  never  shall  get  my 
money ! " 


380  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

"  Never  fear,"  said  Belmonte.  "  I  think  we  will  turn 
the  old  man  into  his  grave  to-morrow  night.  I  am 
well  acquainted  with  the  house,  and  know  where  he 
sleeps.  I  see  no  other  way  of  getting  rid  of  him. 
I  will  give  you  half  the  money  as  soon  as  he  is  dis- 
posed of." 

Mr.  Rivington  shuddered  at  this  cold-blooded  propo- 
sition, but  remained  quiet. 

"  What's  the  use  of  doing  it  to-morrow  night?"  said 
Duggett.  "  Tomorrow  is  Friday.  I  hate  doing  things 
o'  this  kind  on  Friday." 

"  You  are  superstitious,  Duggett.  One  day  is  just 
as  good  as  another." 

"  May  be,"  said  Duggett ;  "  but  I  have  an  almighty 
horror  of  that  day.  It's  hangman's  day." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Belmonte,  with  affected  indiffer- 
ence. 

"  Well,"  said  Duggett,  "  you  may  think  as  you  like, 
but  I  can't  go  with  you  to-morrow  night.  Fri- 
day is  an  unlucky  day  —  I  could  tell  —  but  it  don't 
matter." 

"What  could  you  tell?"  asked  Belmonte,  evidently 
a  little  nervous,  but  striving  to  conceal  it. 

"  It's  now  so  long  since,"  said  Duggett,  "that  there's 
no  manner  o'  use  speaking  on't.  It  makes  me  shudder 
to  think  of  any  thing  so  awful."  He  looked  steadily 
and  somewhat  wildly  at  the  candle  as  he  spoke. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Duggett  ? "  asked  Belmonte, 
evidently  frightened  at  what  Duggett  had  said. 

"  I  think,"  said  Duggett,  still  looking  fixedly  at  the 
candle,  "that  dead  men  sometimes  leave  their  graves. 
'Specially  if  they're  killed  on  a  Friday.  I've  seed  one 
in  my  dreams,  that's  been  dead  now  this  many's  the 
long  year.  He  was  killed  on  a  Friday." 

Belmont's  blood  ran  cold  in   his  veins  —  he  wished 


OR,  LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  381 

himself  safely  away  from  that  gloomy  place.  He 
almost  fancied  that  he  saw  ghosts  in  the  room.  He 
remembered  the  night  which  he  once  passed  at  his  old 
uncle's.  They  both  sat  in  silence  for  a  few  moments  — 
Duggett  still  with  his  eyes  riveted  on  the  candle.  The 
old  clock  on  the  mantel-piece  broke  the  death-like 
stillness  of  the  room,  with  its  solemn  tick  —  tick  —  tick. 
It  seemed  to  warn  them  to  beware  of  the  step  they 
were  about  taking.  Duggett  turned  his  head  suddenly, 
and  said :  — 

"  I  wish  you  would  get  along  without  me.  I  some- 
how feel  kinder  queer  to-night.  I  don't  like  to  help 
kill  that  old  man.  If  he  was  a  rantin'  preacher, 
or  a  lawyer,  or  anybody  'cept  an  old  man,  why  I 
wouldn't  so  much  keer.  But  to  kill  an  old  man!  — 
I  fear  'twouldn't  turn  out  well.  It's  an  old  man  I  seed 
in  my  dreams ! "  At  this  point  he  took  a  large  swallow 
of  the  beverage  on  the  table,  which  seemed  to  give  him 
fresh  courage,  for  he  added:  I'm  in  for  the  tarnal  busi- 
ness though,  and  I  s'pose  I  must  go  through." 

"We  will  put  it  off  until  Saturday  night,"  said 
Belmonte." 

"  Here 's  luck  to  the  old  man ! "  said  Duggett,  as  he 
emptied  his  glass. 

This  sentiment  caused  the  old  man  to  shudder  invol- 
untarily and  move  slightly. 

"What  noise  is  that?"  asked  Belmonte,  turning 
pale. 

"Nothing,"  replied  Duggett.  Just  then  the  clock 
struck  twelve.  "It's  Friday,"  added  Duggett,  "the 
noise  you  heard  may  have  been  a  sperit !  who  knows  ?  " 

"  Don 't  talk  nonsense,"  said  Belmonte,  tremblingly. 

"  It  may  be  nonsense ;  but  I  've  heard  them  walk  afore 
now." 


382  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

Hastings  purposely  made  a  slight  noise,  and  looked 
through  the  key-hole  to  observe  the  effect. 

"  I  certainly  heard  a  noise,"  said  Belmonte,  turning 
his  face  towards  the  door  where  Hastings  and  the  old 
man  lay  concealed.  He  looked  frightened. 

"  I  told  you,"  said  Duggett,  with  the  utmost  indiffer- 
ence, for  he  had  now  drank  enough  to  make  him  fear- 
less, "  that  sperits  of  dead  men  sometimes  leave  their 
graves,  'specially  on  a  Friday!" 

Belmonte  was  anxious  to  get  away. 

"  Will  you  go  with  me  on  Saturday -night  ?  " 

"  I  s'pose  I  must." 

"  Meet  me  then  at  dusk  at  your  boat.  I  will  be 
there." 

Hastings  again  made  a  slight  noise. 

"  I  '11  swear  I  heard  a  noise,"  said  Belmonte,  half  rising 
from  his  chair. 

"  That  did  sound  like  suthen,"  said  Duggett,  as  he 
turned  his  eyes  towards  the  door.  "  I  told  you  Friday 
was  an  unlucky  day.  I  should  n't  wonder  if  there  was 
sperits  in  the  room.  I  've  seed  'em  in  rooms  not  near  so 
dark  as  this." 

Duggett  saw  Belmonte's  frightened  countenance,  and 
he  resolved  to  benefit  by  it. 

"  I  must  have  some  more  money  before  you  go,"  he 
said,  carelessly. 

Belmonte  trembled  more  than  ever.  It  sounded 
almost  like  a  demand  for  his  purse.  He  took  two  pieces 
of  gold  from  his  pocket  and  handed  them  to  Duggett. 

"  I  must  go  now,"  said  he.     "  It  is  growing  late." 

"  This  will  no.t  pay  my  expenses,"  said  Duggett, 
coolly. 

"There,  then,  take  that,"  said  Belmonte,  throwing 
him  a  small  purse.  "  I  can  remain  here  no  longer." 


OR,   LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  383 

Duggett  pocketed  the  money,  and  said,  "  I  '11  be  there ; 
depend  on  5t." 

Belmonte  had  risen  from  his  seat  at  the  table,  when 
Duggett,  as  if  suddenly  recollecting  something,  said: 
"  Wait  a  minit,"  and  opening  the  trap-door  descended 
into  the  cellar,  leaving  Belmonte  in  total  darkness. 
While  he  stood  there,  Hastings  again  made  a  noise  on 
the  door.  Duggett  soon  came  back  with  the  light.  He 
had  gone  below  for  no  other  purpose  than  to  practise 
upon  Belmonte's  fears. 

"  I  tell  you,"  said  Belmonte,  "  that  there  is  something 
or  somebody  in  the  house.  I  heard  a  noise  distinctly." 
He  was  looking  deadly  pale,  and  Duggett,  enjoying  his 
fright,  said :  — 

"  You  '11  believe  in  ghosts  after  this,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  I  will  stay  no  longer,"  said  Belmonte. 

At  that  moment,  the  door  flew  open,  and  Hastings 
and  the  old  man  stood  before  them.  The  white  hair  of 
the  old  man  made  him  look  almost  ghostly  in  the  dimly 
lighted  room.  Belmonte  stared  wildly  at  them  for  a 
moment,  as  if  unable  to  credit  his  senses,  and  then  rush- 
ing into  the  front  room  broke  through  the  window  into 
the  street,  leaving  his  hat  and  gloves  behind  him.  Saul 
Duggett,  terror-stricken  at  this  unexpected  apparition, 
threw  himself  through  the  trap-door,  which  was  open, 
and,  falling  on  his  head,  dislocated  his  neck.  Sally  Jones 
was  soon  in  the  room ;  and  when  Hastings  and  the  old 
man  brought  Duggett's  lifeless  body  from  the  cellar  she 
fell  upon  it,  and  wept  as  if  her  heart  would  break.  Such 
is  woman's  love,  even  when  bestowed  upon  those  known 
by  her  to  be  unworthy.  She  reproached  Hastings  at 
first ;  but  when  she  learned  that  it  was  an  accident  she 
became  more  reconciled,  and  promised  to  follow  Hast- 
ings' instructions  in  making  his  death  known  to  the 
public.  The  next  day  the  newspapers  announced  Saul 


384  THE  CROOKED   ELM. 

Duggett's  death,  and  stated  that  he  had  fallen  through 
a  trap-door  into  the  cellar  of  his  own  house,  when  in  a 
state  of  partial  intoxication,  and  had  dislocated  his  neck. 
Belmonte  left  his  hotel  that  night,  and  took  passage  on 
a  vessel  bound  to  New  Orleans.  Hastings  watched 
him  and  saw  him  leave,  and  then  hurried  back  to  old 
Mr.  Kivington  to  report  the  news,  and  congratulate  him 
on  thus  narrowly  escaping  the  wicked  designs  of  his 
nephew. 


CHAPTER    XXIX 


SEVERAL  weeks  had  passed  since  the  occurrences  nar- 
rated in  the  last  chapter.  Hastings  had  made  diligent 
search  for  Moulton  in  all  parts  of  the  country,  but  could 
find  no  traces  of  him.  He  was  beginning  to  despair  of 
ever  knowing  the  fate  of  his  child.  His  troubles  began 
to  show  in  his  countenance,  although,  when  among 
friends,  he  tried  to  appear  cheerful  and  happy.  He 
could  not  communicate  his  thoughts  to  any  one,  not 
even  to  his  friend,  old  Mr.  Rivington.  Man  never  feels 
the  trials  of  life  so  heavy  to  bear  as  when  he  has  not  a 
single  friend  to  whom  he  can  confide  them.  The  gay 
'  outer  world  may  make  him  smile,  but  his  smiles  are 

"  Like  twilight  imaged  on  a  bank  of  snow,"  — 

they  do  not  proceed  from  the  heart.  One  evening,  as 
Hastings  was  walking  up  Broadway,  he  saw  crowds  of 
well-dressed  people  of  both  sexes  going  into  Niblo's. 
He  had  been  absent  from  the  city  for  more  than  a  week, 
and  had  that  day  returned.  He  was  feeling  melancholy 
and  dispirited.  "  I  will  drop  in  here  for  a  few  minutes," 
thought  he,  "  and  see  if  I  cannot  get  rid  of  my  own 
reflections."  It  was  benefit-night,  and  the  house  was 

33  (386) 


386  THE  CROOKED  ELM; 

fall  to  overflowing.  He  had  not  been  in  long,  when  he 
saw  Mrs.  Coleman  and  her  two  daughters  in  one  of  the 
private  boxes  at  the  side  of  the  stage.  They  had  seen 
him  when  he  entered,  and  as  soon  as  he  recognized 
them,  Kate  beckoned  him  to  their  box. 

"  This  is  an  unexpected  pleasure,"  said  Kate,  as  soon 
as  he  had  picked  his  way  through  the  crowd  which 
filled  the  lobby.  "  I  had  not  hoped  to  see  you  here." 

"  I  was  passing,  and  saw  that  it  was  Madame  S 's 

benefit  night,  and  thought  I  would  drop  in  a  moment." 

"  But  why  have  you  not  called  to  see  me  ?  You 
promised  to  call  as  soon  as  you  returned  to  the  city." 

"  Have  n't  I  called  to  see  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  this  is  accidental." 

"  I  only  arrived  in  town  this  afternoon ;  and  when  I 
came  in  here,  was  on  my  way  to  see  you." 

"  I  have  hah0  a  mind  to  scold  you,  then,  for  loitering  so 
idly  by  the  way." 

"  I  could  not  resist  the  many  pretty  faces  which  I  saw 
entering  the  hall.  I  thought  I  would  drop  in  and  take 
a  peep  at  them  by  gas-light" 

"  You  did  not  seem  to  be  improving  your  time,  for  I 
saw  you  when  you  came  in,  and  you  scarcely  lifted 
your  eyes  while  you  were  sitting  yonder.  And  you 
were  looking  so  sedate!" 

"  Was  I  ?  That  was  because .  I  had  not  seen  your 
cheerful  and  rosy  countenance  since  my  return  to  the 
city." 

Kate  blushed,  and  said,  with  a  face  beaming  with 
pleasure :  — 

"  Had  that  been  the  cause,  you  would  not  have  lin- 
gered on  the  way  to  look  at  pretty  faces." 

"  I  think,"  said  Clemie,  "  that  you  might  make  less 
noise,  Kate.  I  can  scarcely  hear  the  singing  for  your 
talking." 


OK,   LIFE  BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  387 

"  Well,  Miss  Rudeness,"  said  Kate,  "  sit  further  away 
then.  It's  a  pity  I  cannot  speak  a  moment  to  Mr. 
Hastings,  whom  I  have  not  seen  for  nearly  two  weeks, 
without  interfering  with  your  comfort." 

Clemie  made  no  answer,  but  moved  further  away 
from  indignant  Kate. 

"  I  think  Clemie  is  more  than  half  right  in  her  re- 
monstrances. We  are  losing  those  beautiful  passages 
in  this  Lucia  D6  Lammermoor,  which  the  newspaper 
critics  say  Madame  S.  sings  so  divinely." 

They  now  turned  their  attention  to  the  opera,  or  at 
least  they  ceased  conversing  for  a  little  while.  Kate 
was  fond  of  music ;  but  she  did  not  enjoy  Madame  S.'s 
singing  as  well  as  she  enjoyed  conversing  with  Hast- 
ings. His  words  were  sweeter  to  her  than  the  most 
dulcet  strains  that  ever  came  from  throat  of  warbler. 

"Do  you  leave  town  again,  soon?"  inquired  Kate, 
when  the  act  closed. 

"  I  hope  not,"  answered  he. 

"I  should  have  remained  at  home  to-night,  had  I 
known  that  you  were  in  town,"  said  Kate.  «  I  did  not 
wish  to  come  as.  it  was,  but  mamma  compelled  me.  I 
have  something  particular  to  communicate  to  you  when 
next  you  call." 

"  Are  you  sure  that  you  are  not  hoaxing  again, 
Kate?" 

"  Quite  sure.  Can  you  call  some  evening  this  week  ? 
I  have  a  letter  to  show  you." 

"  A  letter !  From  some  pine-away  lover,  I'll  warrant1 
I  will  surely  call  if  you  have  a  letter  to  read  to  me." 

"  It  is  nothing  of  the  kind,  I  assure  you." 

"  Some  happy,  accepted  lover,  then." 

"  Don't  talk  such  nonsense,"  said  Kate,  impatiently ; 
"it  don't  become  that  melancholy  face  of  youfs.  I 


388  THE   CROOKED   ELM  ; 

shall  begin  to  think,"  added  she,  "  that  you  are  in  love, 
unless  you  look  more  cheerful  than  you  have  of  late." 

"  Why  should  n't  I  be  in  love  ?  Certainly  I  am  old 
enough." 

"  It  is  Cupid,  then,  who  makes  you  look  so  unlike 
yourself?" 

"  Why  not  ?  Do  you  think  me  destitute  of  those 
tender  tendencies  sometimes  so  beautifully  exhibited  in 
those  of  my  sex  ?  " 

Kate  laughed  and  said,  "  Your  tender-hearted  sex  are 
to  be  pitied,  poor  unfortunates !  " 

"  I  am  glad  they  have  your  sympathies,  Kate.  But 
the  letter !  What  about  that  ?  Can  you  not  tell  me  its 
contents  ?  " 

She  could  not  resist  her  inclination  to  let  him  know 
something  of  what  was  in  it ;  so  she  answered  :  — 

"  It  is  about  you." 

"  Oh !  Is  that  all  ?  "  said  he  carelessly.  He  had  sus- 
pected, from  the  moment  she  spoke  of  it,  that  it  was 
from  Mrs.  Delacy. 

"  You  treat  it  very  lightly,"  said  Kate. 

"  If  it  is  about  me,"  continued  Hastings,  "  it  is  of 
very  small  importance.  Is  that  all  you  have  to  tell 
me?" 

"  But  it  slanders  you,  Mr.  Hastings.  It  states  what  I 
know  to  be  untrue.  It  says  that  you  have  been  mar- 
ried." She  said  this  as  though  she  felt  very  indignant 
at  the  effrontery  of  the  person  who  had  written  such  a 
falsehood.  •».'. 

"  If  it  says  nothing  less  true  of  me  than  that,"  said 
Hastings,  still  unmoved  by  any  thing  she  had  said,  "  I 
cannot  find  much  fault  with  it" 

Kate  looked  at  him  incredulously. 

"You  need  not  put  on  so  sedate  a  countenance. 
You  cannot  make  me  believe  any  thing  so  ridiculous." 


OE,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  389 

"  What  is  there  ridiculous  in  the  idea  that  I  have 
once  been  married  ?  Why  do  you  disbelieve  that  I 
have  ?  " 

"  You  might  have  been,  to  be  sure,"  said  Kate,  still 
half  believing  that  he  was  trying  to  impose  upon  her 
credulity.  "  But  you  have  not  been,  have  you,  Mr. 
Hastings?" 

"  Yes,  Kate,"  said  Hastings,  in  a  manner  not  admit- 
ting of  doubt,  "  your  letter  is  true  in  that.  What  else 
does  it  say  ?  Nothing  worse,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  No ;  that  is  about  all.  It  tells  me  how  I  might  as- 
certain the  truth  of  what  it  states.  But  I  hope  you  do 
not  think  me  capable  of  seeking  to  know  whether  it  is 
true  or  false  from  any  one,  save  yourself.  I  have  shown 
the  letter  to  no  one,  not  even  to  mamma ;  for  I  believed 
it  to  be  untrue,  and  I  was  quite  sure  the  writer  of  it 
was  not  your  friend." 

"  I  am  glad,  Kate,  that  you  had  sufficient  confidence 
in  me  to  believe  that  I  would  tell  you  the  truth.  If 
you  have  not  mentioned  the  contents  of  the  letter  to 
any  one,  will  you  still  observe  the  same  discretion,  and 
speak  of  it  to  no  one  in  future  ?  " 

"  I  will  do  so  with  the  greatest  pleasure,"  answered 
she,  evidently  nattered  to  think  that  Hastings  had  made 
her  to  some  extent  his  confidant." 

The  curtain  was  again  raised,  and  Madame  S 

came  on  to  the  stage  amid  the  plaudits  of  an  enthusias- 
tic house.  Hastings  and  Kate  ceased  talking  for  a 
moment,  but  soon  were  as  deeply  engaged  in  conversa- 
tion as  ever. 

"  I  do  wish,  mamma,"  said  Clemie,  "  that  you  would 
make  Kate  stop  talking.  She  won't  let  Mr.  Hastings 
or  any  one  else  listen  to  the  singing." 

"  Clemie,  I  think  you  are  exceedingly  rude,"  answered 
33* 


390  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

Kate  peevishly.  "  Just  as  though  we  must  all  remain 
as  still  as  church-mice  to  accommodate  you ! " 

Clemie  turned  her  back  to  Kate,  and  continued  listen- 
ing. Mrs.  Coleman,  hearing  what  had  been  said,  turned 
to  Clemie  and  reproved  her  in  a  voice  little  above  a 
whisper.  "  Clemie,"  said  she,  "  I  will  not  bring  you  to 
the  opera  again,  unless  you  conduct  yourself  better." 
Hastings  overheard  her  reproof,  and  smiled  to  see  that 
Clemie  affected  not  to  hear  it ;  but  kept  her  eyes  riveted 
upon  the  Prima  Donna. 

"  Will  you  be  at  home  to-morrow  night,  Kate  ?  "  in- 
quired Hastings. 

«  Yes." 

"  I  will  call  and  read  that  mischievous  letter  then, 
with  your  permission." 

"  Do,"  said  Kate.  "  I  wish  to  show  it  to  you.  You 
may  recognize  the  handwriting.  Have  you  any  idea 
who  wrote  it  ?  " 

"  I  must  see  it,"  answered  he,  "  before  I  express  my 
suspicions." 

The  opera  at  length  broke  up,  and  Hastings,  after 
showing  Miss  Kate,  her  mamma,  and  Clemie  into  their 
carriage,  returned  to  his  own  home,  pondering  over  the  in- 
telligence which  Kate  had  imparted.  He  feared  that 
Kate  would  be  made  the  object  of  Mrs.  Delacy's  revenge. 

He  called,  as  promised,  the  night  following,  to  see 
Kate.  She  handed  him  the  letter  almost  as  soon  as  he 
entered  the  house.  Before  he  commenced  reading  it, 
Miss  Clemie  came  into  the  drawing-room. 

"  I  declare,  Miss  Clemie,"  said  Hastings,  "  the  opera 
last  night  has  improved  your  looks  at  least  one  half." 

She  did  not  relish  the  compliment. 

"  I  think,"  said  she,  "  that  you  and  Kate  were  not 
much  improved  or  entertained  by  it." 


OR,  LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  391 

"  We  have,"  said  Hastings,  trying  to  tease  her,  "the 
double  faculty  of  conversing  and  listening  to  music  at 
the  same  time.  That  is  a  very  rare  gift,  Clemie.  I 
came  this  evening,"  continued  he,  "  to  condole  with  you. 
I  heard  your  mamma  say  last  night  that  she  should  not 
let  you  go  to  the  opera  again  soon,  because  you  behaved 
so  badly.  Now  you  ought  not  to  be  so  very  naughty, 
Miss  Clemie." 

She  left  the  room,  indignant  to  think  Hastings  should 
treat  her  so  much  like  a  child,  and  mortified  to  know 
that  he  had  overheard  the  reproof  of  her  mamma.  She 
liked  Hastings,  and  knew  him  to  be  her  sincere  friend ; 
yet  he  sometimes  teased  her,  until  she  became  impatient, 
and  almost  angry  with  him.  Hastings  and  Kate  were 
now  left  entirely  to  themselves.  As  soon  as  he  glanced 
at  the  letter,  he  recognized  the  writing,  and  knew  it  to 
be  Mrs.  Delacy's. 

"  This  is  a  singular  document,  Kate,  as  we  lawyers 
say.  I  think  I  know  who  wrote  it ;  but  it  is  not  nec- 
essary for  me  to  tell  you  whom  I  suspect  of  any  thing 
so  base."  He  read  its  contents  carefully,  and  then 
added :  "  This  was  written  to  influence  you  against  me. 
I  fear  that  I  cannot  safely  call  on  you  in  future.  The 
person  who  wrote  this  may  do  you  some  harm.  She 
may.  slander  you." 

"  Why  do  you  think  so  ?  "  asked  Kate. 

"  It  is  evident  that  she  wishes  to  break  off  my  visits 
here." 

"  But  why  need  we  care  ?  "  said  Kate,  made  a  little 
uneasy  by  what  he  said.  "  This  letter  did  not  influence 
me  a  particle.  I  never  would  be  influenced  against  you 
by  your  enemies." 

"  But,  Kate,  a  person  who  would  stoop  to  write  you 
such  a  letter,  would  be  base  enough  to  circulate  inju- 
rious reports  about  you."  . 


392  THE   CROOKED   ELM  ; 

"  I  fear  no  one,"  said  Kate,  somewhat  haughtily.  "  I 
do  as  nearly  right  as  I  can,  without  any  fear  or  thought 
of  those  who  would  injure  me." 

"  You  do  right  in  that,"  said  Hastings ;  "  but  I  know 
more  of  the  world,  perhaps,  than  you  do,  and  I  fear  that 
I  cannot  safely  visit  you  as  frequently  as  I  have  done 
heretofore." 

Kate  could  not  conceal  her  uneasiness  of  mind  at  the 
prospect  of  seeing  him  less  often  than  she  had  been 
accustomed. 

"  I  will  be  frank  with  you,  Kate,"  said  Hastings.  "  I 
must  not  visit  you  so  frequently.  It  would  be  doing  you 
a  great  wrong.  Others  might  misconstrue  my  calls, 
especially  if  assisted  by  some  evil-minded  person." 

Kate  tried  to  suppress  her  feelings,  but  she  could  not. 
Tears  came  into  her  eyes,  and  excusing  herself  for  a 
moment  she  left  the  room.  This  made  Hastings  un- 
easy. He  feared  that  she  was  thinking  too  much  of 
him. 

"  I  hope,"  said  Hastings,  when  she  returned,  "  that  I 
have  not  been  so  rude  as  to  injure  your  feelings." 

"  No ! "  answered  Kate.  "  It  is  my  own  foolishness. 
I  have  always  enjoyed  your  calling  here,  and  I  see  no 
reason  why  I  should  be  debarred  the  pleasure  of  your 
society  by  any  evil-disposed  person." 

"  May  I  visit  you  as  your  brother,  Kate  ?  And  will 
you  always  think  of  me  as  such  ?  I  have  no  sisters,  and 
I  should  like  to  treat  you  as  I  fancy  I  would  treat  a 
sister.  Otherwise  I  must  call  here  only  occasionally." 

Kate  could  not  think  of  having  him  call  less  often 
than  he  had  been  accustomed  to  of  late,  but  there  was 
something  so  dispiriting  in  what  he  had  said,  that  she 
knew  not  what  to  answer.  She  loved  him  with  all  her 
large  heart,  and  the  idea  that  he  only  cared  for  her  as  a 
dear  friend  made  hex  wretched.  She  answered  him, 


OR,  LIFE    BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  393 

however,  with  her  eyes  resting  on  the  floor :  "  I  have 
always  valued  your  friendship,  and  I  hope  I  shall  con- 
tinue to  do  so,  notwithstanding  what  others  may  say." 

"  But  will  you  promise  me,  Kate,  that  my  visits  here 
shall  not  interfere  with  those  of  any  of  your  many  ad- 
mirers ?  You  may  think  this  vanity  in  me,  but  I  hope 
you  will  attribute  my  frankness  to  my  disinterested 
friendship  for  you." 

"  I  will  do  as  you  ask,"  answered  she,  submissively ; 
"  I  can  treat  you  as  I  would  a  brother." 

"  With  this  understanding,  I  shall  be  happy  to  con- 
tinue my  calls,  and  will  take  great  pleasure  in  introduc- 
ing to  you  the  most  respectable  of  my  young  acquaint- 
ances." 

Kate  made  no  reply ;  but  it  was  plain  to  be  seen  that 
she  had  no  wish  to  be  introduced  even  to  Hastings' 
"  most  respectable  "  friends. 

"  Since  you  are  to  be  my  sister,"  said  he,  "  I  must 
take  you  into  confidence.  I  don't  know  why  it  is,  but 
I  feel  that  I  can  safely  tell  you  what  I  have  long  kept 
pent  up  in  my  own  bosom.  You  have  ,  frequently 
accused  me  of  looking  unhappy  and  melancholy.  Shall 
I  tell  you  what  has  contributed  to  make  me  so  ?  " 

"  I  shall  esteem  it  a  great  favor  to  be  your  confidant 
in  an^y  thing  so  nearly  concerning  yourself." 

"  I  never,"  commenced  he,  "  have  told  you  any  thing 
of  my  previous  life.  Why  did  you  wonder,  Kate,  when 
you  were  told  that  I  had  been  married  ?  " 

"  Because  I  have  known  you  so  long,  and  you  never 
have  mentioned  the  fact." 

"  I  never  thought  it  advisable,"  answered  he,  "  to  do 
so ;  not  that  I  wished  to  deceive  you,  or  any  other  of 
my  friends." 

"  I  have  no  doubt,"  said  she, "  that  you  had  good  rea- 


394  THE   CKOOKED   ELM  J 

sons  for  acting  as  you  have.  Others  have  no  right  to 
inquire  into  what  concerns  yourself  alone." 

"  You  have  found  out  part  of  my  secret  from  some 
unknown  correspondent.  I  will  now  tell  you  what  the 
writer  of  that  letter  does  not,  nor  ever  can  know." 
Kate  listened,  wondering  what  he  could  mean.  "  My 
wife,"  continued  he,  "  died  several  years  since ;  but  I 
have,  or  hope  I  have  a  child,  a  lovely  little  girl,  living 
somewhere  in  the  world.  It  is  because  I  believe  her 
living,  and  am  unable  to  find  her,  that  I  am  some- 
times dejected  and  cheerless  when  I  call  here." 

"  How  strange  ! "  exclaimed  Kate.  "  But  why  is  it 
that  you  do  not  know  where  she  is  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  now  tell  you  all  the  reasons."  Kate  was 
intensely  interested  in  what  he  had  said.  There  was  a 
mystery  about  it  all,  which  she  could  not  understand. 
She  longed  to  hear  Hastings  explain. 

"  I  cannot  wonder  now,"  said  she,  "  that  you  some- 
times looked  sad.  You  must  have  thought  me  heart- 
less in  making  so  light  of  your  troubled  looks." 

"  Your  greatest  crime  has  been  in  trying  to  dissipate 
my  gloomy  thoughts." 

"  But  what  of  your  child  ?  "  inquired  she.  "  I  wish 
to  know  more  of  it." 

"  I  had  for  several  years  supposed  it  dead,"  said  he. 

"  Supposed  it  dead !  "  exclaimed  Kate.  "  Did  it  not 
live  with  you  ?  " 

"  Listen  awhile,  and  I  will  tell  you  what  I  know  of 
her  history." 

He  then  related  all  that  he  knew  of  little  Flora,  —  how 
she  had  been  saved,  and  for  some  years  brought  up  by 
old  Mr.  Rivington.  He  did  not  tell  her  all  the  facts  con- 
nected with  her  being  removed  from  the  old  man's,  yet 
he  told  her  sufficient  to  give  her  a  full  knowledge  of  the 


OR,  LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  395 

manner,  that  she  was  stolen  away.  Kate  listened  with 
almost  breathless  attention  to  it  all,  and,  when  he  had 
finished,  exclaimed :  — 

"  How  wonderful !  But  do  you  not  hope  to  find  her 
yet  ?  " 

"  1  still  hope  to  find  her,  yet  I  fear  I  shall  never  see 
the  dear  child  again."  As  he  said  this  he  wiped  away 
a  tear.  Kate  saw  him  do  so,  and  as  if  in  sympathy  her 
eyes  filled  with  tears  also,  and  she  left  the  room  for  a 
moment  to  conceal  them.  When  she  returned,  Hastings 
said,  smilingly :  — 

"  I  have  intrusted  you  with  a  secret  of  great  impor- 
tance to  myself,  and  all  because  you  are  my  sister.  I 
know  that  it  is  safe  with  you,  and  I  am  happy  in  hav- 
ing some  one  to  whom  I  can  relate  my  troubles." 

Kate  made  no  answer,  but  he  saw  in  her  face  a  lan- 
guage more  expressive  than  words. 

"  It  is  growing  late,"  said  Hastings,  «  and  I  must  go." 

"  Stop  a  moment,"  cried  she,  as  she  ran  hastily  out  of 
the  room,  as  though  she  had  suddenly  thought  of  some- 
thing which  she  was  near  forgetting.  She  soon  came 
back,  holding  in  her  hand  a  beautifully  wrought  scarlet 
smoking  cap.  "  We  thought  this  would  become  you 
very  much." 

"  We  thought,"  said  Hastings,  with  a  significant  ac- 
cent on  the  we,  as  he  took  the  cap  and  examined,  and 
of  course  praised  it.  "  Shall  I  thank  we  for  it,  or  you, 
Kate  ?  " 

She  blushed,  and  hung  her  head. 

"  I  do  not  smoke,"  said  he  ;  "  but  I  will  wear  this  for 
the  sake  of  tlje  donor." 

"  I  must  see  you  put  it  on,"  said  Kate. 

He  complied  with  her  wish. 

"  I  declare  ! "  exclaimed  she.     "  You  look  like  a  sul- 


396  THE   CROOKED   ELM  J 

tan.  Let  me  run  and  bring  Clemie."  She  ran  away, 
but  Clemie  was  too  much  offended  to  return  with  her. 
She  had  not  recovered  from  her  pouting  mood. 

"  Have  you  any  commands,  Kate  ?  I  must  leave  be- 
fore your  mamma  comes  and  scolds  us.  Are  there  no 
nice  young  beaux  of  my  acquaintance  that  you  will  be 
introduced  to  ?  " 

"  None,"  answered  she,  laconically. 

"  Consider  a  moment,"  said  he,  pleasantly.  "  Think 
of  Mr. ." 

"  I  will  hear  no  more,"  said  she,  laughing. 

"  Well,  bon  soir,  wilfulness." 

"  Au  revoir  monfrere,  Hastings." 

They  shook  hands  cordially,  and  separated.  It  was 
long  before  Kate  closed  her  eyes  in  sleep  that  night. 
Little  Flora  and  her  strange  history  occupied  her 
thoughts  until  a  late  hour.  She  did  not  feel  happy, 
either,  in  thinking  that  Hastings  felt  towards  her  only 
as  a  brother. 

A  few  days  after  Hastings  had  made  Kate  his  confi- 
dant, he  found  the  following  among  his  letters  by  the 
last  post :  — 

"  DEAREST  WILLIAM,  —  I  can  remain  in  suspense  no 
longer.  Do  write  me  if  you  are  yet  alive,  and  relieve  my 
anxiety  of  mind.  I  fear  that  something  has  happened 
to  you.  Oh,  write  me  one  word,  and  tell  me  that  you  are 
still  alive.  Walter  has  not  written  me  since  he  left.  I 
fear  that  you  never  got  my  letter  of  warning.  I  am 
wretched  in  being  banished  from  you.  I  care  not  for 
consequences.  I  must  hear  from  you  —  I  must  know 
whether  you  have  been  harmed  by  him.  Direct  a  letter 

to  ,  General   post-office,  and  I  will   get  it.      Oh, 

write  at  once,  and  relieve  me  of  the  weight  that  is  in- 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  397 

supportable.  I  shall  be  unhappy  until  I  hear  from  you. 
In  my  banishment  I  am  ever  thinking  of  the  only  one 
I  have  ever  loved.  Believe  me  forever,  your 

"  CORNELIA." 

Hastings  read  and  re-read  this  letter,  and  then  seated 
himself  at  his  desk,  and. wrote  her  in  answer  a  long  let- 
ter, in  which  he  detailed  all  that  had  occurred  between 
himself  and  Belmonte  since  the  latter's  return  to  New 
York.  He  expressed  his  undying  love  for  her,  and  told 
her  how  lonely  and  unhappy  her  absence  made  him. 
His  letter,  which  filled  several  sheets,  closed  with  this 
quotation :  — 

"  Fate,  that  may  rob  us  of  all  wealth  beside, 
Shall  leave  us  love,  —  till  life  itself  be  past." 

34 


CHAPTER    XXX. 


ANOTHER  winter  had  passed  away.  Spring  had  come 
and  gone,  and  Mrs.  Belmonte  still  remained  in  England. 
Belmonte  had  written  to  her  once  or  twice,  saying  that 
business  of  a  peculiar  nature  demanded  his  presence  in 
New  Orleans,  and  telling  her  to  remain  where  she  was 
until  he  should  come  for  her.  She  had  more  than  once 
heard  from  Hastings,  and  had  written  to  him  occasion- 
ally. Her  letters  to  him  were  much  more  cheerful  than 
she  felt ;  for  she  was  unwilling  that  he  should  know  the 
extent  of  her  heart-breaking  sorrow.  I  will  not  attempt 
a  description  of  the  long,  gloomy  days,  weeks,  and 
months  which  she  had  passed  in  England,  shut  out 
from  all  whom  she  knew,  and  apprehensive  and  fearful 
respecting  the  future.  Day  after  day  she  would  shut 
herself  up  in  her  room  and  weep  over  hopes  long  since 
fled,  and  over  the  net  of  troubles  which  encompassed 
her.  Bitterly,  long,  and  silently,  had  she  mourned  over 
what  seemed  to  be  her  fate.  The  bloom  on  her  cheeks 
had  disappeared.  Pale,  thoughtful,  and  with  a  melan- 
choly expression  of  countenance,  she  moved  among  her 
friends  and  visitors,  without  seeming  to  realize  where 
she  was  or  what  she  was  doing.  Her  thoughts  were 
not  there.  They  were  far  away,  following  him  whom 
neither  time  nor  distance  could  teach  her  to  forget 

(398) 


THE    CROOKED    ELM.  399 

One  day,  in  the  early  part  of  June,  Bessy  came  running 
to  her  mistress,  half  out  of  breath. 

"  Here's  a  letter,  Missis,"  exclaimed  she ;  "  I 's  ran  de 
whole  ob  de  way  from  de  pose-office.  I  'specs  it 's  from 
Massa  Belmonte.  Mrs.  Belmonte  knew  the  handwrit- 
ing, and  quickly  broke  the  seal  and  commenced  read- 
ing it.  Bessy  remained  in  the  room  long  enough  to 
see  her  mistress'  countenance  light  up  with  a  glow 
of  pleasure,  and  then  leaving,  she  muttered :  "  Bref 
de  Lor5 !  Bref  de  Lor' !  I  know'd  it  was  from 
Massa  Hastins  de  berry  fus  minit  I  seed  it,  but  I 
'tended  to  Missis  dat  I  thought  it  was  from  Massa 
Belmonte,  case  she  might  n't  jis  like  it  over  much,  to 
hab  dis  chile  know  moje'n  was  'zacly  right.  Bref 
you,  Massa  Hastins !  bref  you  for  makin'  missis 
happy!  Bref  de  Lor'!  Bref  de  Lor5!!"  Bessy 
went  about  the  house  the  remainder  of  that  day 
scarcely  knowing  what  she  was  about.  Her  ebony 
face  was  covered  with  smiles.  She  could  have  em- 
braced Hastings  for  thus  cheering  the  heart  of  her 
mistress.  Mrs.  Belmonte  read  the  letter  which  Bessy 
had  given  to  her  until  all  its  thoughts  had  been  trans- 
ferred to  her  memory,  and  for  a  few  days  she  appeared 
more  cheerful  and  happy  than  she  had  for  some  time. 
This  favorable  change  soon  wore  away,  however,  and 
she  became  as  pensive  and  absent-minded  as  ever.  It 
was  apparent  to  all  who  knew  her  that  her  health  was 
fast  failing.  She  neither  enjoyed  riding,  walking,  nor 
any  of  the  many  amusements  that  were  gotten  up  sole- 
ly for  her  entertainment  She  became  «iore  and  more 
retired  in  her  habits  every  day  —  seldom  going  into  so- 
ciety when  she  could  reasonably  avoid  doing  so.  One 
day  her  physician  advised  her  to  travel  for  a  few  months 
in  some  warm  climate.  "  Travelling,"  said  he,  "  will 
benefit  you  more  than  any  medicine  I  can  prescribe." 


400  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

<;  But,"  answered  she,  "  I  do  not  know  when  Mr.  Bel- 
monte  will  return.  I  can  not  leave  here  until  I  obtain 
his  consent." 

"  If  you  wait  for  that,"  said  the  physician,  who  seemed 
to  divine  the  cause  of  her  illness,  "  it  may  be  too  late. 
I  have  been  speaking  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Worthington, 
(the  people  in  whose  house  she  was  staying,)  and  they 
say  they  would  be  happy  in  accompanying  you  to  Italy, 
or  to  any  other  place  you  might  wish  to  go." 

"  They  are  exceedingly  kind  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Bel- 
monte,  "  and  have  been  all  the  time  that  I  have  been 
with  them.  Yet  I  cannot  consent  to  leave  here  at 
present."  As  she  said  this,  a  thought  suddenly  occurred 
to  her,  and  she  added :  "  If  a  .visit  to  the  south  of  Ire- 
land would  be  of  any  benefit  to  me,  I  might  consent  to 
go  there  for  a  month  or  so.  That  is  not  so  far  away 
as  Italy.  Should  Mr.  Belmonte  return,  I  could  soon 
come  on  here." 

The  physician  readily  consented  to  her  visiting  Ire- 
land, and  she  at  once  made  arrangements  to  set  out  for 
Cork  in  company  with  her  kind  host  and  hostess. 

She  had  long  wished  to  visit  the  place  where  Hast- 
ings had  been  married.  He  had  often  spoken  to  her  of 
the  events  and  incidents  connected  with  his  wedding, 
and  had  described  much  of  the  scenery  which  he  had, 
in  company  with  his  young  bride,  visited  during  the 
few  first  weeks  of  their  married  life.  "  I  should  like," 
thought  Mrs.  Belmonte,  "  to  see  the  little  church  where 
William  was  married  —  the  rivers,  castles,  lakes,  and 
mountains,  of  which  I  have  so  often  heard  him  speak. 
Walter  knows  nothing  of  this  part  of  his  history.  He 
cannot  object  to  my  spending  the  summer  months  in 
the  south  of  Ireland.  Yes,  William,  I  will  go  and  see 
the  little  church,  the  lakes  and  castles  which  you  have 
seen,  and  I  will  associate  them  all  with  you.  I  may 


OR,  LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  401 

never  see  you  or  hear  your  voice  again,  but  it  will  be  a 
pleasure,  while  banished  from  you,  to  look  at  scenery 
forever  associated  in  my  mind  with  your  earlier  life." 

Arrangements  were  soon  made,  and  Mrs.  Belmonte, 
accompanied  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Worthington,  set  out  for 
Cork.  The  first  place  they  visited,  on  arriving  there, 
was  the  little  church,  a  few  miles  out  of  the  city,  in 
which  Hastings  and  Ida  Linwood  were  married.  Mrs. 
Belmonte  exhibited  no  curiosity  of  mind  respecting  it 
when  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Worthington;  but  the  next 
day  she  excused  herself  to  them,  saying  that  she  wished 
to  do  a  little  shopping,  and  that  she  might  be  absent  an 
hour  or  more.  She  took  Bessy  with  her,  and  as  soon 
as  they  had  gone  a  few  blocks  from  the  hotel  they  got 
into  a  carriage  and  drove  to  the  little  church  again. 
The  sexton,  quite  an  old  man,  was  there,  and  took 
pleasure  in  answering  all  the  questions  which  Mrs.  Bel- 
monte asked  him.  Bessy  remained  in  the  carriage,  and 
wondered  what  her  mistress  was  about.  "  What  am  de 
matter  with  Missis  ?  "  muttered  she.  "  Here  she  comes 
yes'day  an  den  agin  to-day  to  look  at  de  meetin'  house. 
It  am  no  great  curimosity  arter  all.  It  am  purty  'nough, 
but  I  've  seed  a  mighty  sight  purtier.  Missis  looks  sol- 
emn like,  too.  May  be  she  thinks  as  how  she 's  gwine 
to  die,  an  she  comes  here  case  ob  dat.  I  is  sartin  dat 
am  de  reason.  Now  she's  talkin'  with  dat  ar  ole  gen'- 
man.  Well,  white  folks  knows  der  business  better  nor 
culled  persons,  dat  am  sartin."  Bessy  watched  atten- 
tively all  that  her  mistress  did,  for  she  wondered  why  she 
should  take  such  an  interest  in  visiting  a  place,  seem- 
ingly of  so  little  note.  Mrs.  Belmonte  learned  of  the 
sexton  what  seemed  to  satisfy  her,  and  she  left  him  and 
walked  about,  first  in  the  church  and  then  in  the  shaded 
grounds  surrounding  it.  At  length  she  seated  herself 
34* 


402  THE   CROOKED  ELM; 

under  the  shade  of  a  large  tree,  and  commenced  sketch- 
ing the  church  on  a  leaf  of  her  portfolio,  which  she  had 
evidently  brought  with  her  for  the  purpose.  She  sat 
absorbed  in  her  book  for  nearly  an  hour,  and  then  get- 
ting up  approached  the  old  sexton.  "  I  thank  you  for 
being  so  kind  to  me  to-day.  I  wish  to  sketch  this 
church  for  my  album,  and  may  visit  here  frequently. 
Will  you  accept  this  ?  You  look  old  and  feeble."  She 
handed  the  old  man  a  piece  of  gold. 

"  May  the  Lord  presarve  you,  my  good  lady  ! "  said 
he,  as  he  took  off  his  hat  and  made  a  low  bow. 

"  I  may  come  here  to-morrow.  Will  you  be  here  ?  " 
inquired  Mrs.  Belmbnte,  as  she  was  about  leaving. 

"  I  will  be  here,  God  bless  your  ladyship !  ivery  day 
you  come,  if  it  be  all  the  days  in  the  year." 

She  thanked  him  again,  and  got  into  her  carriage  and 
drove  away,  leaving  the  old  man  standing  near  the  door 
of  the  church  with  his  hat  still  in  his  hand.  The  next 
day,  Mrs.  Belmonte  in  company  with  her  friends  visited 
Blarney  Castle,  its  groves,  lake,  and  many  places  of 
interest  in  its  immediate  vicinity.  They  continued  at 
Cork;  and  Mrs.  Belmonte  in  company  with  Bessy 
frequently  stole  away  to  the  same  little  church  which  I 
have  already  mentioned,  and  to  the  groves  of  Blarney. 
The  old  sexton  always  had  a  smile  for  her  when  she 
came,  and  the  old  woman  at  the  castle  welcomed  her 
with  her  best  courtesy.  Often  would  she  sit  in  the  shade 
of  the  trees  surrounding  the  church  and  write  for  hours 
at  a  time.  She  seemed  to  take  a  melancholy  pleasure 
in  doing  so.  She  had  completed  her  sketch  of  the  little 
church,  embosomed  as  it  was  beneath  the  green  foliage 
of  the  tall  trees  which  stood  on  every  side  of  it.  Blarney 
Castle,  its  groves  and  sylvan  lake,  had  also  been  trans- 
ferred to  her  album.  Two  weeks  more  have  passed, 


OR,  LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  403 

and  Mrs.  Belmonte  has  just  returned  to  Cork,  from  a 
visit  to  the  lakes  of  Killarney.  Several  additional 
sketches  of  scenery  on  the  lakes  have  been  added  to 
those  already  taken.  The  scenery  and  the  air  in  the 
south  of  Ireland  have  not  effected  a  favorable  change  in 
her  health.  She  is  looking  more  feeble  than  when  she 
left  England.  She  scarce  ever  smiles,  or  engages  in  con- 
versation with  any  one.  A  settled  melancholy  rests 
upon  her  countenance. 

As  soon  as  they  had  returned  from  Killarney,  Mr. 
Worthington  wrote  to  her  physician,  requesting  him  to 
come  on  at  once. 

"  We  cannot,"  wrote  he,  "  prevail  upon  her  to  leave 
this  place,  although  it  is  apparent  that  she  is  fast  failing 
every  day.  She  seems  to  take  pleasure  in  remaining 
here  and  visiting  two  or  three  places  only.  I  proposed 
to-day  a  sail  on  the  Cove  of  Cork,  but  she  declined, 
giving  as  a  reason  that  she  wished  to  complete  some 
sketches  which  she  had  commenced.  Mrs.  Worthing- 
ton and  I  are  growing  alarmed  in  consequence  of  her 
greatly  increased  debility  of  body,  and  the  general  mel- 
ancholy of  her  mind." 

In  answer  to  this  letter,  Mrs.  Belmonte's  physician 
wrote,  advising  Mr.  Worthington  to  persuade  Mrs.  Bel- 
monte to  take  a  short  trip  to  the  continent.  He  also 
recommended  a  physician  to  him  residing  in  Cork,  and 
stated  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  him  then  to  leave 
home.  Mr.  Worthington  showed  this  letter  to  Mrs. 
Belmonte,  but  he  could  not  prevail  upon  her  to -leave 
Cork. 

Weeks  passed  on,  and  her  health  continued 
way.     She  had  become  so  feeble  that  when  she 
out  it  was  necessary  that  she  should  be  bolstered 
her  carriage.     In  this  condition  she  drove  to  the 
church  one  day,  after  an  absence  from  it  of  nearl 


404  THE   CROOKED   ELM  J 

week.  She  sat  in  her  carriage  for  some  time,  but  at 
length  signified  a  desire  to  go  to  her  old  seat  under  the 
large  tree.  The  old  sexton  assisted  her  to  get  down, 
and  let  her  lean  on  his  arm  as  she  walked  into  the 
churchyard.  A  pillow  was  placed  on  the  seat,  and  Mrs. 
JBelmonte  requested  to  be  left  alone.  She  sat  in  silence 
for  a  few  moments,  and  then  taking  her  pencil  wrote  in 
her  portfoli o  the  following  short  letter  :  — 

"  DEAREST  WILLIAM,  —  I  am  sitting  here  near  the 
little  church  where  you  were  married.  For  several 
weeks  I  have  visited  this  lovely  spot  almost  daily.  It 
speaks  to  me  of  you,  and  I  find  a  pleasure  in  coming 
here.  But  even  this  happiness  will  soon  be  denied  me. 
I  am  no  longer  able  to  walk  about  in  these  hallowed, 
sylvan  shades  without  assistance.  The  good  old  sexton 
let  me  lean  on  his  arm  as  I  walked  from  my  carriage 
here.  He  remembers  you,  and  has  told  me  many  times 
of  your  wedding.  He  has  not  forgotten  your  generosity 
to  the  peasantry  and  to  himself.  I  fear,  William,  that 
I  cannot  come  here  many  times  more.  I  do  not  wish 
to  alarm  you,  I  do  not  wish  to  say  aught  that  will  give 
you  pain.  I  have  purposely  kept  from  you  my  fast  fail- 
ing health;  but  now  I  feel  it  necessary  to  write  you, 
and  tell  you  that  I  have  not  long  to  live.  Since  I  can- 
not see  you,  —  since  all  hope  of  happiness  is  denied  me 
in  this  life,  I  have  no  desire  to  live  longer.  Bessy  will 
keep  my  portfolio  and  a  few  papers  which  it  contains, 
and  will,  when  she  returns  to  New  York,  deliver  them 
safely  to  you.  I  feel  that  I  shall  not  write  you  many 
times  more.  Do  not  think  me  unhappy  in  thus  leaving 
a  world  which  has  ever  given  md  trouble  and  disappoint- 
ment. I  welcome  death  as  a  messenger  of  mercy.  I 
can  write  no  more  now.  I  must  leave  this  dear  place, 
perhaps  for  the  last  time.  Believe,  while  you  live,  that 


OR,  LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  405 

the  heart  which  has  never  changed  is  still  thine,  and 
will  be  until  it  is  laid  in  the  cold  grave.       CORNELIA." 

When  Mrs.  Belmonte  became  conscious  that  she 
never  would  get  well,  she  took  Bessy  into  her  confidence 
a  little,  as  the  only  means  of  communicating  with  Hast- 
ings. There  were  several  papers  and  small  articles 
which  she  wished  to  be  given  to  him  in  case  of  her 
death.  She  had  made  her  wishes  on  this  subject  known 
to  Bessy,  and  had  given  her  such  instructions  as  she 
deemed  necessary  respecting  them.  One  day  she  called 
Bessy  to  her  bedside,  and  said :  — 

"  Will  you  be  sure  to  do  as  I  have  told  you  with  that 
rose-wood  box,  in  case  I  do  not  get  well  ?  " 

Bessy  answered,  with  tears  coursing  down  her  cheeks : 
"  I  '11  do  jis  as  missis  says ;  but  I  hope  de  Lor5  will  let 
you  lib  many's  de  long  year  yit."  As  she  said  this,  she 
sat  down  and  blubbered  aloud.  "  Oh,  I  hab  allers  lub'd 
you,  so  I  hab.  You  allers  hab  been  a  good  missis  to 
me,  an'  you  mussent  die." 

She  loved  her  mistress,  and  could  not  endure  the 
thought  of  her  dying.  Whenever  Mrs.  Behnonte  had 
spoken  to  her  of  late  on  the.  subject,  she  had  burst  into  a 
fit  of  crying.  More  than  a  week  had  passed  since  Mrs. 
Belmonte's  last  visit  to  the  little  church,  and  she  con- 
tinued to  grow  more  feeble  every  day. 

"  Bessy,"  said  she  one  day,  "  take  this  sketch  to  the 
old  sexton.     He  will  like  it  as  a  present  from  me,  I  am 
sure.     See!    I  have  sketched  him  at  the  door  of  the 
church.     Do  you  think  it  looks  like  him  ?  " 
"    « 'Zacly  like  him  for  all  de  worle." 

"  Well,  carry  it  to  him.  He  is  very  poor  too ;  give 
him  this  purse.  Go  now  and  tell  him  that  I  am  not  so 
well  as  I  have  been,  but  that  I  hope  soon  to  visit  him 
again." 


406  THE  CROOKED  ELM, 

Bessy  took  an  outside  car,  and  soon  arrived  at  the 
church.  The  old  sexton  was  there,  and  was  glad  to  see 
her. 

"See  here,  what  missis  sent  you,  Misser  Sextle!" 
said  Bessy,  as  soon  as  she  had  shaken  the  old  man's 
hand.  He  looked  attentively  at  the  church,  the  trees, 
and  himself,  as  they  were  sketched  on  the  paper,  and, 
hastily  brushing  away  a  tear  with  his  rough  hand, 
said :  — 

M  How  is  your  good  mistress  ?  God  bless  her  lady- 
ship!" 

"  She  am  no  better,  Mr.  Sextle,"  answered  Bessy, 
shaking  her  head  solemnly. 

"  Is  she  confined  to  her  room  ?  " 

"  Yes,  she  am  'fined  to  her  room.  Missis  thinks  she 
am  gwine  to  die,  an'  she  am  jis  as  nappy  as  if  she  was 
gwine  to  lib."  She  tried  to  keep  from  crying,  but  it 
was  of  no  use ;  she  soon  went  off  in  a  regular  fit  of 
blubbering,  and  the  old  man  wiped  away  the  tears  as 
they  came  into  his  own  eyes. 

"  Here  am  some  money  missis  sent  you.  She 
'quested  me  to  say  dat  she  hopes  for  to  come  here 
soon." 

"  God  bless  her !  God  bless  her  for  remembering  the 
poor! "  cried  the  old  man,  as  he  turned  away  weeping, 
and  walked  into  the  church.  As  soon  as  Bessy  had 
gone,  the  old  man  seated  himself  in  the  shade  where  he 
had  often  seen  Mrs.  Belmonte  sit,  and  after  counting  the 
money  she  had  sent  him  looked  attentively  for  a  long 
time  at  the  sketch,  which  he  still  held  in  his  hand. 
«  Dear  lady ! "  he  muttered.  "  To  think  of  a  poor  cra- 
ture  like  me !  May  the  Lord  presarve  her  a  long  time 
yet !  To  send  the  like  o'  me  so  much  money !  and  this 
picture,  how  beautiful !  There 's  myself  by  the  church 
door,  sure.  She  made  me  with  her  own  hand,  —  God 


OR,   LIFE  BY   THE  WAY-SIDE.  407 

bless  her ! "  As  he  said  this  he  kissed  himself  in  the 
picture,  and,  getting  up,  walked  away  muttering  all 
kinds  of  blessings  upon  Mrs.  Belmonte  for  being  so  kind 
to  him. 

The  physician,  recommended  to  Mr.  Worthington, 
visited  Mrs.  Belmonte  daily,  but  could  prescribe  nothing 
to  help  her.  He  did  not  understand  her  disease.  She 
was  dying  of  a  broken  heart.  There  are  few,  perhaps, 
in  this  material  age,  who  believe  in  broken  hearts. 
Occasionally,  however,  we  see  those  of  the  gentler  sex 
fading  and  passing  away  without  seeming  to  die  of  any 
disease.  All  efforts,  put  forth  by  the  most  skilful  physi- 
cians, fail  to  effect  a  cure.  They  fade  like  autumn 
leaves;  they  die  of  broken  hearts.  All  their  ideal 
world,  —  all  of  every  thing  they  have  prized,  has  been 
swept  away  by  the  tornado  of  disappointed  love,  and 
they  are  left  the  helpless  wrecks  of  the  sweeping  and 
withering  blast.  The  picture  of  disappointed  love,  so 
beautifully  painted  in  Irving's  "  Broken  Heart,"  com- 
mends itself  to  every  one  possessed  of  human  feeling 
for  its  truthfulness  and  fidelity  to  nature.  Like  Irving, 
I  believe  in  broken  hearts. 

Mrs.  Worthington  remained  with  Mrs.  Belmonte,  and 
did  all  she  could  for  her.  One  morning,  as  they  were  in 
the.  loom  together,  Mrs.  Belmonte  said,  — 

"  I  know  not  how  to  thank  you,  Mrs.  Worthington, 
for  all  the  kindness  you  have  shown  to  me.  I  do  not 
think  I  shall  live  many  days  longer,  and  I  cannot  die 
until  I  have  expressed  to  you  my  sincere  gratitude  for 
all  you  have  done.  I  have  one  request  to  make  of  you, 
and  I  am  sure  you  will  grant  it.  Will  you  have  me 
buried  in  the  wood,  near  by  the  little  church  which  we 
visited  together  on  the  day  after  our  arrival  here?  'Tis 
there,  under  the  shade  of  those  tall  trees,  that  I  wish  to 
repose  when  I  am  dead." 


408  THE   CROOKED   ELM  | 

"  Your  request  shall  be  granted,"  answered  Mrs. 
Worthington,  deeply  affected.  "  I  have  often  wondered 
why  you  visited  that  little  church  so  frequently.  There 
must  be  something  which  endears  it  to  you." 

"  We  all  have  histories  of  our  own,"  said  Mrs.  Bel- 
monte,  in  a  feeble  voice,  "  much  of  which  is  known  only 
to  ourselves.  We  all,  too,  have  secrets  which  will  be 
buried  with  us  in  the  grave.  You  are  right  in  thinking 
that  the  place  where  I  wish  to  be  laid  is  endeared  to 
me.  It  is,  and  must  ever  be  associated  in  my  mind 
with  a  very  dear  friend.  And  now  that  I  am  in  a 
strange  land,  I  wish  to  attest  my  friendship,  by  selecting 
it  as  the  place  wherein  to  repose  after  this  life  of  mine, 
which  has  been  filled  with  sorrow  and  trouble,  shall 
have  passed  away  from  earth." 

There  was  something  so  plaintive  and  sad  in  the 
tones  of  Mrs.  Belmonte's  voice,  as  she  made  this  partial 
confession,  that  Mrs.  Worthington's  eyes  filled  with 
tears  as  she  listened.  She  took  Mrs.  Belmonte's  hand, 
and,  pressing  it  tenderly,  said :  — 

"  I  fear  we  have  not  known  the  cause  of  your  ill- 
ness. I  have  sometimes  suspected  that  private  troubles 
weighed  upon  your  mind.  Have  you  no  other  requests 
to  make  ?  No  word  to  leave  for  Mr.  Belmonte  ?  " 

"  Tell  him,"  said  she,  "  that  I  died  happy." 

"  Is  there  nothing  more  that  you  wish  said  to  him  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  answered  Mrs.  Belmonte.  "  He  will  get 
the  things  I  leave  with  you.  I  have  written  what  I 
wished  to  say  to  him,  and  he  will  read  it  when  he  comes 
on  here.  You  will  please  keep  carefully  the  small 
trunk  which  stands  there.  What  I  have  written  is  in 
that." 

Mrs.  Worthington  promised  that  she  would.  At  this 
point  in  the  conversation,  Bessy  entered  the  room  and 
handed  Mrs.  Belmonte  a  letter.  It  was  mailed  in  New 


OR,   LIFE   BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  409 

Orleans.  She  opened  and  read  it.  For  a  moment  a 
smile  rested  upon  her  countenance.  Belmonte  wrote 
that  he  could  not  come  to  England  for  several  months. 
"  He  will  not  be  here,"  thought  she,  "  to  oppose  my 
dying  request.  I  can  sleep  in  the  churchyard  where  I 
have  passed  so  many  hours  thinking  of  William,  who, 
in  the  hour  of  his  marriage  to  another,  was  still  faithful 
and  true  to  me !  I  am  glad  that  Walter  will  not  be 
here  when  I  die." 

His  letter  imparted  a  negative  happiness.     It  secured 
to  her,  she  thought,  her  last  and  fondest  wish. 

35 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 


HARRY  COLLINGWOOD  had  been  at  the  Babblington 
school  so  long  that  all  its  peculiarities  had  ceased  to 
be  novelties.  He  took  to  his  books  kindly,  and  had 
already  learned  his  hie,  hcec,  hoc,  and  was  rapidly  pre- 
paring himself  to  enter  college.  Charley,  Dick,  and 
Wash  continued  to  be  his  warm  friends  and  compan- 
ions, and  all  was  passing  along  as  smoothly  as  could 
well  be  expected.  He  had  received  letters  from  home 
frequently;  nor  had  he  neglected  to  write  often  to 
his  father  and  mother,  and  to  Aunt  Rose.  About  the 
middle  of  summer  he  wrote  and  mailed  the  following 
letter :  — 

"DEAR  FATHER  AND  MOTHER, —  Term  closes  next 
Wednesday.  Charley  Willington  and  I  will  leave 
here  on  Thursday.  We  will  go  to  New  York  in 
company.  May  be  he  will  go  home  with  me.  He 
says  he  will  if  his  folks  will  let  him.  I  wish  they 
would,  —  you  would  like  him  so  much.  I  tried  to 
get  Dick  Evans  and  Wash  Smith  to  go  too,  but  their 
fathers  wouldn't  let  them.  I  am  so  glad  that  it  is 
near  the  time  to  leave.  The  money  you  sent  came 
to  me  safely.  Old  Babble  —  I  mean  Mr.  Babbling- 
ton  bought  me  a  new  jacket  and  trowsers  with  part 
of  it  Charley  wanted  a  jacket  and  trowsers  like  mine, 

(410) 


THE   CROOKED   ELM.  411 

so  I  let  him  have  enough  money  to  buy  them.  Charley 
says  I  look  real  well  in  my  new  suit.  My  old  clothes, 
which  I  brought  from  home,  are  vastly  too  short  for 
me.  I  am  a  great  deal  bigger  than  I  was.  I  don't 
think  Aunt  Rose  will  know  me.  I  want  to  see  you 
all  so  much!  I  have  just  finished  my  Latin  First 
Reader,  and  have  commenced  translating  in  the  Second 
Reader.  It  is  growing  late,  and  I  am  tired.  Good 
night.  Tell  Aunt  Rose  that  I  will  be  at  home  in 
a  week  or  so.  Your  affectionate  son, 

«  HARRY." 

As  soon  as  term  closed,  Harry  and  Charley  bade  good- 
by  to  Dick,  and  Wash,  and  to  the  Babblington  family, 
and,  after  more  than  a  day's  travel  on  the  railroad, 
arrived  safely  in  New  York  city.  They  had  not  been 
there  long  when  they,  in  company,  visited  Hastings 
at  his  office. 

"  Ah,  Harry  and  Charley,  my  boys !  I  am  delighted 
to  see  you!"  said  Hastings,  as  soon  as  they  entered 
his  office.  "  When  did  you  come  to  the  city?  " 

"  This  morning,"  answered  Harry. 

"  Your  cousin  Lib  didn't  know  you,  did  she,  Char- 
ley?" 

"  Trust  her  for  that !  She  asked  me  to  carry  a  mes- 
sage for  her  to  Mr.  Diddlescott,  or  some  such  name, 
an  hour  after  I  got  home.  I  believe  she  will  want  me 
to  run  on  errands  when  I  am  fifty  years  old." 

"  I  thought  you  were  very  fond  of  your  cousin  Lib," 
said  Hastings,  smiling. 

"Oh,  I  like  her  well  enough;  but  I  am  glad  she  is 
going  to  get  married." 

"  Married ! "   exclaimed  Hastings. 

"  Yes,  she  is  going  to  be  married  to  Mr.  Diddlesby, 
or  whatever  his  name  is.  Didn't  you  know  it? " 


412  THE  CROOKED  ELM; 

"  I  have  heard  nothing  of  it  before,"  said  Hastings. 

"  I  am  glad,  Mr.- Hastings,  that  you  are  not  going  to 
many  Lib.  She  would  bother  your  life  out" 

Hastings  laughed,  and  asked  when  her  wedding  was 
to  take  place. 

"  In  a  fortnight,"  said  Charley.  "  Have  you  seen  ]\Ir. 
Diddle,  Mr.  Hastings?" 

"  Dillingscott,  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  believe  that  is  his  name.     Have  you  seen  him  ?  " 

"  Frequently.  He  is  a  very  fine  looking  gentleman. 
Don't  you  think  he  is,  Charley  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  he  is,"  said  Charley,  shrugging  his 
shoulders  slightly.  "  I  am  glad  he  is  going  to  take 
Lib,  at  any  rate." 

"  Lib  wouldn't  thank  you,  if  she  heard  you  speaking 
so  lightly  of  her  intended  husband." 

u  Oh,  she  don't  care.  I  told  her  this  morning  that 
I  did  not  like  Mr.  Diddle  —  Diddlescott.  I  never  have 
seen  him  but  once,  and  I  don't  like  him.  That  is  the 
long  and  short  of  it." 

"  How  soon  do  you  leave  for  home,  Harry  ?  "  inquired 
Hastings,  putting  his  arm  round  Harry's  waist,  and 
pulling  him  close  up  to  his  side.  "  They  won't  know 
you,  you  have  grown  so  tall.  I  declare,  you  are  get- 
ting to  be  quite  handsome  too !  What  will  little  Miss 
Robinson  say  when  she  sees  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Harry,  quite  dignifiedly,  "  I  don't  think 
much  of  Lizzie  Robinson.  She  is  very  good,  to  be 
sure;  but  I  don't  think  much  about  the  little  girls. 
Do  I  Charley?" 

"  No,  Mr.  Hastings,  he  don't,"  answered  Charley,  quite 
sedately. 

"  That  is  right  enough,"  said  Hastings,  smiling  to  see 
how  promptly  Charley  came  to  the  assistance  of  his 
friend.  "  But  I  think  I  have  heard  your  father  speak  of 


OR,  LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  413 

a  little  curly-headed  beauty,  who  once  lived  near  you. 
You  took  very  kindly  to  her,  did  n't  you,  Harry  ?  " 

"  I  think  father  has  very  little  to  do,"  said  Harry,  in- 
dignantly, "  when  he  says  such  things  of  me." 

"  I  was  told  that  she  was  very  pretty,"  said  Hastings. 

"  So  she  was  good  looking  enough,"  said  Harry,  relax- 
ing his  indignant  expression  of  countenance  a  little.  "  I 
liked  Flora  very  much,  and  so  did  everybody  who 
knew  her." 

"  Flora !  Was  her  name  Flora  ?  "  said  Hastings,  in 
terestedly. 

"  Yes.     Her  name  was  Flora  Mowbray." 

"  That  is  the  little  girl  to  whom  you  gave  your  like- 
ness ?  "  said  Charley.  "  I  have  often  heard  you  speak 
of  her." 

Harry  looked  displeased  at  his  friend  for  divulging  so 
sacred  a  secret,  and  Charley  at  once  regretted  saying 
what  he  had.  He  tried  to  mend  the  matter  by  adding : 
"  Oh,  no !  I  am  quite  mistaken!  I  was  thinking  of —  of 
— ."  Here  Hastings,  who  had  not  been  listening  to 
what  Charley  was  saying,  muttered,  half  to  himself  and 
half  to  Harry,  "  Her  name  was  Flora  Mowbray  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that  was  her  name,"  said  Harry,  wondering  that 
Hastings  should  repeat  the  question. 

"  Had  Mr.  Mowbray  much  of  a  family,  Harry  ?  " 

**  Flora  was  all,  except  an  old  woman  whom  they 
called  Aunt  Judy."  This  answer  was  electrical  in  its 
effect  upon  Hastings.  He  sprang  to  his  feet  involun- 
tarily, and  paced  the  floor. 

Hastings  had  visited  his  friend  Collingwood,  and  had 
heard  him  speak  of  a  little  girl  to  whom  Harry  had  be- 
come much  attached.  He  had  not  heard  her  name 
mentioned,  except  as  little  Miss  Mowbray.  Indeed, 
nothing  had  been  said  of  her  to  excite  any  thing  more 
35* 


414  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

than  a  general  and  passing  interest  in  her.  The  men- 
tion of  the  name  Flora,  therefore,  awakened  his  curios- 
ity to  know  more  of  her.  He  soon  composed  himself, 
and,  taking  a  seat  again  by  Harry,  inquired  when  he  was 
going  to  leave  for  home.  "  Day  after  to-morrow,"  said 
Harry.  "  Charley  is  going  with  me." 

"  How  would  you  like  me  as  company  ? "  asked 
Hastings. 

"  You  ?     "Will  you  go  ?  "  asked  Harry,  delightedly. 

"  I  think  I  will.  It  has  been  some  time  since  I  have 
had  the  pleasure  of  visiting  your  father  and  mother." 

Harry  and  Charley  were  rejoiced  to  think  Hastings 
was  going  with  them,  for  they  both  liked  him  very  much. 
The  next  day  Hastings  treated  the  boys  to  various 
presents,  and  took  them  to  several  places  of  note,  among 
others,  Greenwood  Cemetery.  He  asked  Harry  many 
questions  respecting  Flora,  and  finally  told  him  that  he 
thought  Mr.  Mowbray  was  an  old  acquaintance  of  his. 

"  Do  you  know  where  he  is  now  ?  "  inquired  Harry, 
eagerly,  as  soon  as  he  was  told  that  Mr.  Mowbray 
might  possibly  be  known  to  Hastings. 

"  I  do  not  know  where  he  lives,"  said  Hastings.  "  I 
wish  to  ascertain  where  he  is  very  much." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Harry,  enthusiastically. 

Hastings  could  scarcely  refrain  from  smiling  to  see 
how  absorbed  Harry  was  in  every  thing  appertaining  to 
little  Flora.  As  they  were  passing  round  one  of  the 
little  lakes  which  adorn  Greenwood,  Harry  saw  the 
name  Flora  carved  on  a  white  marble  monument. 
That  was  all  that  was  written  upon  it.  For  a  moment 
he  trembled  almost,  and  looked  up  inquiringly  into 
Hastings'  face.  Hastings  understood  his  feelings,  and 
soon  dispelled  his  fears. 

"  Do  you  think  Flora  is  alive  ?  "  inquired  Harry,  with 
the  utmost  simplicity. 


OR,  LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  415 

"  Why  do  you  ask  that  question  ?  "  said  Hastings, 
scarcely  knowing  how  to  answer  him. 

"  Oh,  there  are  so  many  graves  here  I  thought  that 
Flora  might  have  died  since  she  went  away." 

They  at  length  seated  themselves  on  the  borders  of  a  lit- 
tle lake,  in  which  there  was  a  beautiful  fountain  playing, 
and  gave  themselves  up  to  their  own  reflections.  There 
is  something  in  the  very  atmosphere  of  Greenwood  that 
awakens  serious  thought.  Memories  of  other  days 
crowd  upon  the  mind  —  days  never  to  be  forgotten.  We 
are  reminded,  by  the  tokens  of  death  which  surround  us, 
of  absent  friends,  —  friends  far  away,  perhaps,  who  are 
sleeping  their  last  sleep  beneath  ground  long  since  conse- 
crated in  memory.  In  these  solemn  sylvan  shades  the  in- 
clinations and  thoughts  of  even  the  depraved  are  compar- 
atively pure,  and  free  from  the  contaminations  of  vice,  and 
the  corrupting  influences  of  the  world.  Death,  in  its  most 
pleasing  aspect,  is  little  inviting  to  any  of  us ;  but,  could 
we  be  sure  that  our  bodies  would  finally  rest  in  so  lovely 
a  spot  as  Greenwood,  some  of  the  terrors  of  dissolution 
would  certainly  disappear.  It  matters  little,  perhaps, 
where  the  body  rests  when  the  soul  has  fled,  but  there 
is  something  unpleasant  in  the  thought  that  our  bodies 
will  be  disturbed  or  even  neglected  after  death.  In 
Greenwood  we  see  with  what  tenderness  and  pious 
care"  the  bodies  of  relatives  and  friends  are  regarded.  A 
rigid  philosophy  would  teach  us  that  "  to  mourn  the 
loss  of  friends  were  idle ; "  yet,  in  the  face  of  these  un- 
feeling facts,  the  soul  delights  to  linger  around  the 
graves  of  those  once  loved  in  life.  We  see  evidences 
of  this  at  every  step  in  Greenwood.  The  choice  flowers, 
so  tenderly  cultivated  and  so  tastefully  arranged,  —  the 
forget-me-not,  —  the  bridal  wreath, — the  cedar  —  that 
emblem  of  lasting  continuance,  —  and  numerous  other 


416  THE  CROOKED  ELM  ; 

flowers  equally  expressive  of  affection,  find  a  welcome 
place  at  almost  every  grave.  Greenwood  is  certainly  a 
charming,  a  lovely  place.  All  is  so  still,  so  beautiful. 
Even  the  little  birds  that  build  their  nests  in  the  branches 
of  its  trees,  and  the  little  squirrels  that  burrow  beneath 
their  thick  green  shades,  seem  to  know  that  they  are 
protected  by  the  sacredness  of  the  place.  For  how  in- 
nocently will  the  former  carol  some  favorite  song  while 
perched  upon  a  branch  near  by ;  and  how  fearlessly  will 
the  latter  gambol  and  play  about  our  pathway.  They 
know  no'danger  because  they  have  never  been  led  to  fear 
man's  destructive  tendencies.  They  have  only  seen  him 
in  his  melting  moments.  With  this  digression  I  will 
return  to  my  story. 

The  next  day,  Hastings  with  the  two  boys  set  out  for 
Harry's  father's.  When  they  arrived  at  Mr.  Colling- 
wood's  they  were  all  most  heartily  welcomed.  Aunt 
Rose,  as  soon  as  she  had  an  opportunity,  threw  her 
arms  round  Harry,  and  shed  tears  of  joy  at  seeing  him 
again. 

"  Oh,  Lor5 !  Massa  Harry !  How  big  you  is ! "  said 
she,  looking  at  him  in  astonishment.  Harry  was  glad 
to  see  her ;  but  he  thought  Rose  did  not  receive  him 
with  sufficient  dignity  before  strangers.  Had  he  been 
in  the  kitchen  alone  with  her,  it  would  have  been  quite 
another  thing,  but  as  it  was  he  thought  that  she  made 
too  free  with  him.  He  had  not  been  there  long  when 
he  stole  into  the  kitchen  where  Rose  was,  and,  for- 
getting all  his  dignity,  threw  himself  into  her  arms,  and 
permitted  her  to  hug  him  to  her  and  blubber  over  him 
as  much  as  she  liked.  A  tear  or  two  escaped  from 
Harry's  eyes,  although  he  strove  all  he  could  to  keep 
them  back. 

"Don't  be  so  foolish,  Rose,"  said  Harry.  "They 
will  hear  you  crying."  His  admonitions  were  thrown 


OR,  LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-BIDE.  417 

away ;.  for  Aunt  Rose  was  too  overjoyed  to  think  of  the 
proprieties  of  life.  Harry  sat  down  in  the  kitchen,  and 
Rose  looked  at  him,  and  walked  about  him,  and  went 
to  the  cupboard  and  brought  from  it  all  the  good  things 
which  she  had  made  purposely  for  him  when  he  should 
come  home.  As  she  walked  about,  not  knowing  half 
the  time  what  she  was  doing,  she  kept  muttering:  — 
"  How  big  Massa  Harry  is !  How  big  young  Massa 
Harry  is! "  She  at  length  settled  down  into  something 
resembling  a  calm,  and  talked  to  Harry  in  the  same  old 
confidential  way  that  she  was  wont  to  before  he  left 
for  school. 

"  I  must  go  now,  Rose,"  said  Harry,  when  he  had 
been  with  her  nearly  an  hour.  "  Charley  will  be  looking 
for  me.  I  will  come  in  and  see  you  to-night.  Shall  I 
bring  Charley  with  me  ?  " 

"  No,  Massa  Harry,  I  wishes  to  hab  you  all  alone  by 
yourself." 

"  Well,  1  will  come  and  see  you  to-night." 

"  Dat  am  jis'  like  you,  —  I  know'd  as  how  you  'd 
'member  Aunt  Rose." 

Harry  left,  and  Aunt  Rose  continued  to  go  about  the 
kitchen,  some  of  the  time  laughing  and  some  of  the  time 
crying,  but  all  the  time  looking  happy.  Occasionally  she 
would  leave  the  kitchen  and  walk  past  the  door  of  the 
house  to  get  a  glimpse  of  Harry  as  he  sat  talking  to  his 
father  and  mother.  Then  she  would  return  to  the  kitchen 
to  wait  impatiently  for  night  to  come.  It  seemed  to  her 
as  though  the  sun  never  would  go  down  that  day.  It 
did  go  down,  however ;  and  Harry,  excusing  himself  to 
Charley  as  they  were  retiring  to  their  beds,  stole  into 
the  kitchen  to  talk  to  Aunt  Rose.  She  had  placed  all 
the  good  things  of  her  well-stored  cupboard  on  the 
table  —  and  the  two  sat  down  together,  and  discussed, 
not  only  the  delicacies  before  them,  but  many  matters 


418  THE  CROOKED  ELM; 

which  had  long  been  locked  up  in  their  respective  minds. 
Harry  was  not  so  much  of  a  child  as  he  had  been  when 
Rose  talked  to  him  before,  but  she  thought  of  him  and 
talked  to  him  just  as  she  had  done  previous  to  his 
leaving  for  school.  He  found  no  fault  with  her  for 
doing  so.  His  dignity  had  all  evaporated  and  master 
and  slave  talked  together  of  old  times,  and  renewed 
their  pledges  of  friendship. 

"  Rose,  have  you  heard  any  thing  about  little  Flora?" 
asked  Harry,  when  they  had  settled  down  into  the  con- 
fidential mood. 

"  No !  Massa  Harry,"  said  Rose,  shaking  her  head 
solemnly,  and  picking  at  her  apron  with  her  right  fore- 
finger and  thumb.  "  I  hab  hearn  nuthin'  ob  her  at  all, 
at  all."  She  rolled  her  eyes  up  at  Harry  to  see  the 
effect  of  this  speech,  and  then  added :  — 

"  Massa  Harry,  hab  you  seed  de  little  angel  in  all 
your  trabbels  ?  " 

"  No,  Rose.  I  fear  I  shah1  never  see  her  again.  I  often 
dream  of  her,  and  then  I  see  her  just  as  she  was  when 
she  lived  here." 

Rose  drew  a  long  sigh,  and  said  :  — 

"  De  Lor5,  Massa  Harry,  will  keep  little  Flora  in  de 
holler  ob  his  han',  —  I  knows  he  will.  Dat  am  what  de 
good  book  says,  —  I  listen  to  Missis  when  she  read  it 
las'  Sunday." 

"  But,  Rose,  why  did  the  Lord  take  her  away  ?  " 

"  Massa  Harry!  Massa  Harry!"  said  Rose,  shaking 
her  head,  half  reprovingly.  "  De  Lor'  am  berry  good. 
It  am  all  for  de  bes' !  It  am  all  for  de  bes'! " 

"  But  why  is  it  all  for  the  best,  Rose  ?  Little  Flora 
was  happy  here,  and  I  was  happy,  and  you  were  happy. 
She  and  I  loved  each  other  very  much ;  and  if  she  had 
remained  here,  you  know  I  would  have  married  her,  and 
then  you  would  have  li ved  with  us,  and  we  all  would 


OR,   LIFE  BY   THE  WAY-SIDE.  419 

have  been  happy.  But  now,  I  shall  never  marry  any 
one,  and  you  will  never  be  any  better  off  than  you  are 
at  present.  You  will  always  have  to  live  here  with 
father." 

Rose  drew  another  long  sigh  at  this  vivid  picture  of 
her  own  and  Harry's  gloomy  prospects,  but  said  with  a 
becoming  spirit  of  Christian  resignation: — 

"  De  Lor',  Massa  Harry,  am  allers  right.  I  will  trus' 
de  Lor5  to  bring  all  roun'  right." 

Harry  made  no  answer ;  but  it  is  to  be  feared  that  his 
faith  was  not  so  strong  as  that  of  his  old  nurse  in  the 
sentiment  she  had  expressed. 

"  Massa  Harry,"  said  Rose,  "  I  hab  a  dream  a  long 
time  ago,  an'  'twas  all  'bout  you  an'  de  little  angel.  Do 
you  think  dreams  come  true,  Massa  Harry  ?  " 

"  They  never  come  true  with  me,"  said  Harry.  "  I 
have  dreamed  of  seeing  Flora  a  great  many  times.  My 
dreams  don't  come  true.  But  what  did  you  dream, 
Rose?" 

Harry  sat  in  his  chair,  with  his  elbows  resting  on  the 
table,  and  with  his  head  resting  in  his  hands,  while  Rose, 
with  a  serious  and  almost  solemn  face,  related  the  fol- 
lowing dream :  — 

"  Eber  so  long  'go  ;  not  many  days  arter  you  lef '  to 
tend  school,  I  hab  a  dream.  I  'magined  in  my  dream 
dat  I  was  in  de  kitchen  ob  a  berry  fine  house.  I  don't 
jis  'member  whar  de  house  was,  but  it  was  a  mighty  fine 
house.  De  kitchen  was  de  cleanest  an'  de  bes'  as  neb- 
ber  was.  I  'magined  I  was  sittin'  by  de  fire,  a  reel 
ginuine  good  fire,  dat  blazed  an'  sparkled,  an'  crackled, 
an'  made  de  room  warm  an'  comfor'able.  For,  Massa 
Harry,  it  was  de  berry  dead  ob  winter.  I  'magined  dat 
I  was  dah,  an'  dat  Massa  Harry  was  dah,  an'  dat  little 
Flora  was  dah,  an'  dat  we  was  all  dah,  a  settin'  by  de 
big  fire  in  de  kitchen.  I  'magined  dat  Massa  Harry 


420  THE   CROOKED   ELM  J 

hab  grow'd  up  to  be  a  big  man,  an'  dat  little  Flora  was 
de  finest  ob  ladies.  I  'magined  dat  she  looked  berry 
good,  an'  berry  nice,  an'  berry  fine ;  an'  dat  she  was 
a  settin'  in  a  cheer  by  Massa  Harry's  side,  an'  dat  Massa 
Harry  was  a  settin'  in  a  cheer  by  little  Flora's  side,  an' 
dat  I  was  a  settin'  on  a  stool  in  de  corner,  lookin'  at 
dem  bofe.  I  'magined  dat  little  Flora  was  big  an'  dat 
she  was  a  leanin'  one  arm  on  Massa  Harry's  knee,  an' 
dat  Massa  Harry  hab  one  ob  his  arms  roun'  little 
Flora's  waise  —  oh!  Massa  Harry,  if  you  could  hab  seed 
'em!  How  lubly  dey  looked!  Little  Flora's  har  fell 
in  curls  aU  ober  her  face,  an'  she  look  for  all  de  worle  jis 
like  she  did  when  she  was  here,  —  only  her  har  was 
longer  an'  curlier,  an'  her  eyes  was  bigger  and  han- 
somer,  an'  she  was  a  drefful  sight  bigger  an'  han'somer 
an'  beautifuller.  I  'magined  dat  I  was  dah,  an'  dat  I 
hab  all  de  good  things  to  eat  locked  up  in  de  cubber. 
If  you  could  had  seed  dat  ar'  kitchen,  an'  dat  ar'  fire, 
an'  dat  ar5  cubber,  and  all  dat  I  seed,  Massa  Harry,  den 
you  would  trus'  de  Lor'  an'  b'lieve  dat  it  would  all 
come  true,  some  time.  I  b'lieve  in  dreams  ;  I  do.  I 's 
know'd  many's  a  one  to  come  true." 

Harry  listened  attentively  to  the  picture  which  Rose 
had  drawn,  and  wished  in  his  heart  that  her  dream  had 
been  real. 

"Is  that  all,  Rose?" 

"  Yes,  Massa  Harry,  I  woke  up  afore  I  lef '  de  kitchen. 
But  it  would  hab  to  be  a  mighty  fine  house  to  hab  a 
kitchen  like  dat  ar'  kitchen  was.  It  mus  hab  been  de 
berry  same  house  dat  you  use  to  say  you  an'  Flora 
would  lib  in.  I  know  it  mus  be  de  berry  same 
house." 

Aunt  Rose's  faith  was  much  stronger  than  Harry's. 
He  once  had  been  as  hopeful  as  she ;  but,  strange  to  say, 
his  book-learning  and  his  increased  age,  and  a  more 


OR,  LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  421 

extended  knowledge  of  the  world,  had  made  him  place 
less  trust  in  dreams  and  wishes  than  .he  had  been  wont 
to  in  his  earlier  years.  The  strong  faith  of  Rose,  how- 
ever, encouraged  him  to  hope,  perhaps  partly  believe, 
that  her  dream  would  come  true.  They  remained  talk- 
ing until  long  after  midnight,  when  Harry,  after  receiv- 
ing a  loving  embrace  from  his  old  nurse,  stole  away  to 
his  bed  to  dream  over  again  Aunt  Rose's  dream. 

The  next  day,  he  with  Charley  visited  the  farm  where 
Moulton  and  Flora  had  lived.  It  was  occupied  by 
another  family.  Every  thing  looked  different  to  Harry. 
He  remained  some  time,  and  visited  many  places  which 
were  indelibly  associated  in  his  mind  with  Flora,  and 
then  returned  home  with  a  heavy  heart.  Every  thing 
which  he  saw  looked  different  from  what  it  had  when 
he  left  home.  His  father's  house  seemed  to  be  much 
smaller,  —  so  did  the  hills  about,  and  the  river  which  ran 
by  the  door.  Every  thing  had  diminished  in  size. 
Charley  remained  with  his  friend  several  weeks,  and 
often  did  they  astonish  Aunt  Rose  with  their  prodigious 
amount  of  learning.  Harry  declined  Latin  adjectives, 
and  conjugated  Greek  verbs,  until  the  old  negress  rolled 
up  the  whites  of  her  eyes  in  very  wonderment.  She 
began  to  look  upon  him  with  feelings  akin  to  awe  ;  and, 
had.it  not  been  for  his  confidential  moods,  which  he 
indulged  in  almost  every  night,  when  alone  with  her, 
she  would  scarcely  have  recognized  the  Harry  whom 
she  had  nursed  when  a  child,  and  always  loved  so  much. 
Whenever  he  talked  to  her  alone  in  the  kitchen,  how- 
ever, she  always  forgot  his  great  wisdom,  and  thought 
of  him  only  as  her  darling  Harry*. 

The  two  young  hopefuls  did  not  fail  to  initiate  Aunt 
Rose  into  the  beauties  and  force  of  the  "  Guttural  Sys- 
tem." They  regretted  very  much  that  Dick  Evans  was 
36 


422  THE   CROOKED  ELM; 

not  there  to  take  off  Squeaking  Jimmy,  but  in  his  absence 
they  did  the  best  they  could.  They  posted  themselves  al- 
ternately in  one  corner  of  the  kitchen  and  spoke  at  Aunt 
Rose  for  hours  at  a  time,  —  making  her  sometimes  the 
Roman  Senate,  at  others  the  British  Parliament,  and  I 
know  not  what," —  until  her  eyes  dilated  to  twice  their  or- 
dinary dimensions.  They  told  her  many  amusing  stories 
and  anecdotes  while  they  were  devouring  the  good 
things  which  she  always  prepared  for  them  when  they 
came  into  the  kitchen ;  —  and  Charley  came  to  think 
her,  before  he  left,  one  of  the  best  "  women  of  color " 
that  it  had  ever  been  his  fortune  to  know.  She  always 
listened  to  his  stories,  and  gave  him  the  best  she  had  in 
the  kitchen  to  eat,  and  never  asked  him  to  run  on  errands. 
This  may  have  had  some  influence  in  the  opinion  which 
he  had  formed  of  her.  Be  this  as  it  may,  he  began  to 
feel  very  tender,  very  tender  indeed,  towards  old  Rose. 

Hastings  immediately  on  his  arrival  learned  all  he 
could  of  Moulton.  The  information  which  he  obtained 
there  convinced  him  that  his  child  was  still  living.  It 
removed  a  heavy  load  from  his  mind.  He  no  longer 
doubted  the  truth  of  what  Belmonte  had  told  him  re- 
specting the  substitution  of  a  child  to  deceive  old  Mr. 
Rivington.  He  was  confident  that  Moulton  had  re- 
formed. This  also  relieved  his  mind  of  the  anxiety 
which  he  had  at  first  felt  when  Harry  disclosed  the  fact 
that  little  Flora  was  living  with  Moulton. 

He  did  not  tell  Collingwood  why  he  wished  to  find 
Mowbray,  nor  did  he  intrust  any  of  the  secrets  respect- 
ing his  child  with  him.  When  he  left,  he  bade  them  all 
a  cordial  good-by ;  but  he  felt  a  tenderness  for  Harry 
greater  than  he  had  ever  felt  before,  because  Harry  had 
loved  little  Flora  and  made  her  happy. 

"  Here,  Harry,"  said  he,  as  he  was  about  leaving ;  — 


OR,  LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  423 

"  you  are  now  getting  to  be  such  a  man  that  you  ought 
to  have  a  watch.  Will  you  wear  mine  ? "  as  he  said 
this  he  took  from  his  vest  pocket  a  beautiful  gold  watch 
and  gave  it  to  Harry.  "  You  have  been  a  very  good 
boy  at  school,  I  am  told,"  and,  continued  Hastings  in  a 
lower  tone  of  voice,  "  I  like  you  very  much,  because  you 
like  little  Flora." 

He  shook  Harry  heartily  by  the  hand,  and  left  without 
giving  him  time  even  to  thank  him  for  the  valuable 
present. 

Harry  was  puzzled  to  know  what  Hastings  meant  by 
the  words,  "  I  like  you  because  you  like  little  Flora." 
He  did  not  fail  to  have  a  confidential  talk  with  Aunt 
Rose  that  night. 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 


WHEN  Hastings  left  his  friend  Collingwood's,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  Cincinnati  to  learn,  if  possible,  something 
more  concerning  his  child  of  Moulton's  agent.  His 
visit  was  fruitless,  however,  for  he  obtained  no  informa- 
tion by  which  he  could  trace  Moulton  from  that  city. 
After  spending  several  weeks  in  different  places  he  re- 
turned to  New  York  with  the  full  conviction  that  his 
child  was  li ving,  and  with  a  heavy  heart  at  not  being 
able  to  find  her.  Among  the  letters  awaiting  him  at  his 
office,  was  the  one  which  Mrs.  Belmonte  had  written 
while  seated  in  the  shade  of  the  old  trees  which  stood 
by  the  little  church.  The  desponding  tone  of  its  con- 
tents alarmed  him.  "  Can  it  be  possible,"  muttered  he, 
"  that  Cornelia  is  -dying,  with  no  one  near  her  wh%>m 
she  knows  ?  I  will  fly  to  her  at  once,  be  the  consequence 
what  it  may!"  In  accordance  with  this  resolution, 
he  immediately  left  his  office  and  engaged  passage  on  a 
vessel  bound  the  next  day  to  Liverpool.  He  made  hasty 
preparations  for  leaving,  nor  did  he  in  his  hurry  and  ex- 
citement forget  to  call  that  evening  to  see  his  adopted 
sister,  Kate  Coleman.  He  had  been  absent  from  the 
city  much  longer  than  he  had  intended  to  be  when  he  left 
it  with  Harry  and  Charley.  Kate,  therefore,  was  anx- 
ious and  impatient  to  see  him.  She  met  him  with 
smiles  as  usual,  notwithstanding  his  truancy,  for  it 

(424) 


THE   CROOKED   ELM.  425 

never  yet  entered  into  her  mind  to  find  fault  with 
him. 

"  You  have  been  playing  truant  in  earnest,  this  time," 
said  she,  when  they  had  seated  themselves  together  in 
her  mother's  drawing-room.  "  1  have  a  great  mind  to 
scold  you  for  writing  me  but  one  letter  while  you  were 
absent.  Don't  you  think  you  deserve  a  good  scolding  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  I  do  ;  and  if  you  will  promise  before  you 
begin  that  it  shall  be  a  good  scolding,  I  think  I  will  lis- 
ten to  it,  disagreeable  as  it  may  be  to  my  feelings." 

"  But  where  have  you  been  so  long  ?  "  inquired  she. 

"  Then  you  are  not  going  to  scold  me  ?  " 

"  Not  until  I  am  sure  that  you  deserve  it.  But  tell 
me  why  you  have  remained  so  long  away  ?  " 

"  Since  you  are  disposed  as  ever  to  deal  mercifully 
with  me,  Kate,  I  will  answer  your  question." 

Hastings'  troubled  countenance  contradicted  his  light 
words,  and  Kate  was  quick  to  discover  it.  She  inter- 
rupted him,  therefore,  by  saying  :  — 

"  But  you  look  pale  and  careworn  ?  " 

"  Absence  from  you  for  so  long  a  time  has  made  me 
look  so,"  said  he,  striving  to  conceal  his  real  feelings. 

"  Do  not  jest,  but  tell  me  what  troubles  you."  There 
was  so  much  tenderness  and  love  in  the  tones  of  her 
voicej  that  he  answered :  — 

"  You  are  right,  Kate.  I  feel  very  little  like  jesting, 
or  engaging  you  in  light  conversation.  Sit  here  by  me 
and  I  will  talk  with  you  candidly." 

Kate  seated  herself  on  the  sofa  by  his  side,  and  he, 
taking  her  hand  in  his,  related  what  he  had  so  recently 
learned  respecting  little  Flora.  She  listened  with  the 
deepest  interest  to  every  word  he  spoke ;  she  shared  his 
feelings  and  anxiety  respecting  the  lost  one. 

"  I  am  sure,"  said  she,  when  he  had  finished,  "  that 
36* 


426  THE   CROOKED   ELM*, 

you  will  yet  find  her.  She  has  been  mysteriously  and 
strangely  preserved,  and  I  feel  confident  that  you  will 
one  day  meet  her." 

"  I  wish  I  had  your  faith,  Kate ;  it  wouid  encourage 
me  while  I  still  seek  her." 

"  You  doubted  but  a  little  white  ago  whether  she  yet 
lived,  and  now  that  discouraging  uncertainty  has  been 
removed.  It  is  thus,  in  ways  that  we  think  not  of,  that 
Providence  opens  our  eyes  to  the  light.  I  have  great 
faith  in  an  overruling  Power.  I  believe  that  to  the 
good,  all  things  will  be  well.  And,  since  it  is  right  that 
you  should  find  your  child,  I  believe  you  will."  She 
said  this  with  so  much  enthusiasm,  and  with  so  much 
of  faith  and  hope  beaming  from  her  sweet  and  expres- 
sive countenance,  that  Hastings  felt  awed  into  rever- 
ence as  he  listened  to  her.  "  If  I  were  as  innocent  and 
good  as  you,"  thought  he,  "  I,  too,  might  have  faith ; 
but  to  me  there  is  no  such  consolation." 

"  Your  words,"  added  he,  after  a  moment's  silence, 
"  cheer  me,  although  I  cannot  feel  as  you  do.  My  faith 
is  not  like  yours." 

She  made  him  no  answer,  but  sat  as  if  intently  think- 
ing for  a  few  moments ;  and  then,  suddenly  turning  to 
Hastings,  she  said :'  — 

"  Why  was  it  that  she  was  taken  to  your  friend's  in 
Virginia,  if  not  directed  by  an  overseeing  eye  ?  Is  it 
not  strange  that  she  should  have  been  taken  there, 
rather  than  to  any  other  p^ace  ?  Have  you  not  known 
of  similar  strange  occurrences,  which  can  be  accounted 
for  in  no  other  way  so  satisfactorily  as  in  believing  that 
they  were  ordered  by  an  overruling  and  an  all-wise 
Providence  ?  " 

"  It  is  strange,"  said  Hastings,  "  that  she  should  have 
been  taken  there,  and  I  will  not  try  to  weaken  your 


OR,   LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  427 

faith  in  the  belief  which  you  have  expressed,  that  she 
was  guided  by  an  unseen  hand.  The  good  only  can 
have  such  faith  as  yours.  It  must  be  pleasant  to  feel 
that  we  are  deserving  the  interference  of  Providence 
fyr  our  greater  happiness." 

Thus  does  woman,  in  the  simplicity  of  faith,  and,  as 
if  feeling  her  own  weakness,  lean  as  it  were  on  the  arm 
of  her  Maker,  putting  trust  in  all  his  promises,  and  be- 
lieving that  he  will  even  "  hear  the  young  ravens  when 
they  cry  ;. "  —  while  man,  self-reliant  and  proud,  trusts 
to  his  own  strength,  and  is  disinclined  to  believe  in  the 
intervention  of  supernatural  agencies  in  the  affairs  of 
men.  His  faith  in  facts  is  the  deduction  of  reason. 
Like  Thomas,  he  must  see  in  his  hands  the  print  of  the 
nails,  and  put  his  fingers  into  the  print  of  the  nails,  and 
thrust  his  hand  into  his  side,  before  he  can  believe. 

The  trusting  faith  of  Kate  made  Hastings  feel  that 
she  was  his  superior  in  all  that  was  elevating  and  good. 
He  had  come  to  tell  her  that  he  was  going  to  England 
the  next  day,  but  it  was  late  in  the  evening  before  he 
could  mention  the  subject  to  her.  At  length  he  said:  — 

"  Kate,  I  have  taken  passage  in  a  vessel  which  is  to 
sail  for  Liverpool  to-morrow.  I  have  come  to  bid  you 
good-by." 

She  was  not  much  surprised,  for  she  at  once  thought 
that  he  was  going  there  in  search  of  little  Flora. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  she  said,  "  to  think  of  being  so 
long  deprived  of  your  society." 

"  The  time  will  soon  pass  away,  Kate,"  said  he,  with 
an  effort  to  be  cheerful,  "  and  my  absence  will  cheer  your 
many  admirers,  for  I  really  believe  that  some  of  them 
think  me  their  rival.  You  must  undeceive  them  when 
I  am  gone." 

Kate  made  no  answer,  but  blushed,  looked  embar- 
rassed, and  perhaps  a  little  unhappy.  She  left  the  room, 


428  THE  CROOKED   ELM; 

and  soon  returned  with  Clemie  and  her  mother.  She 
had  not  told  them  that  Hastings  was  about  to  leave  the 
city. 

"  Ah !  Clemie,"  said  Hastings,  after  first  speaking  to 
Mrs.  Coleman,  "those  roses  on  your  cheeks  are  *s 
blooming  as  ever." 

Clemie  did  not  like  this  liberty  with  her  cheeks,  but 
she  did  not  tell  him  so.  She  only  remained  silent,  and 
looked  a  little  displeased.  They  all  sat  together  talking 
for  some  time,  but  neither  Kate  nor  Hastings  felt  like 
lively  conversation,  and  the  result  was  that  Clemie 
thought  them  more  than  usually  dull. 

"  I  will  leave  you  to  yourselves,"  said  Clemie,  ad- 
dressing Kate  and  Hastings,  as  she  got  up  to  leave  the 
room  ;  "  you  are  exceedingly  dull  to-night." 

"  But,  Clemie,  I  am  going  to  leave  the  city  to-morrow 
for  Europe.  I  have  come  here  specially  to  bid  you 
good-by."  '  « 

"  I  am  sorry  that  you  are  going  away  so  soon,"  said 
Clemie  unaffectedly,  for  she  really  liked  Hastings. 

"  I  will  not  quarrel  with  you  again,  Clemie,"  said  he, 
as  he  rose  to  shake  her  by  the  hand,  "  until  my  return ; 
for,  much  as  we  have  disagreed,  I  find  that  I  am  very 
sorry  to  part  with  you." 

Clemie  dropped  her  head  to  conceal  a  tear,  and,  bid- 
ding him  good-by,  tripped  out  of  the  room.  Her  mother 
remained  a  short  time  in  the  drawing-room,  and  then 
left  Kate  and  Hastings  to  themselves.  It  was  past  mid- 
night, when  he,  rising  to  go,  said :  — 

"  Mind  that  you  follow  my  advice  respecting  young 
Carleton." 

"  I  cannot  do  so.  I  do  not  think  enough  of  him  to 
obey  your  request." 

Carleton  was  one  of  Kate's  admirers,  and  a  very 
worthy  and  promising  young  man. 


OR,  LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  429 

"  He  is  justly  entitled  to  your  esteem,  to  your — " 

"  Say  no  more  about  him,"  interrupted  Kate.  "  I 
must  be  judge  in  matters  of  this  kind.  I  esteem  him 
and  appreciate  his  worth  as  much  as  any  one,  perhaps, 
but  he  and  I  can  only  be  friends  —  no  more." 

"  I  will  drop  the  subject,"  said  Hastings  ;  "but  I  am 
half  inclined  to  be  angry  with  you  for  your  obstinacy." 

They  were  at  the  door,  —  Kate  could  not  conceal  her 
grief  at  having  to  part  with  him,  —  tears  came  into  her 
eyes,  and  her  countenance  reflected  the  sadness  of  her 
heart. 

"  I  must  bid  you  good-by  now,  Kate,"  said  Hastings, 
taking  her  hand  in  his,  "  although  I  have  been  trying  to 
postpone  doing  so  to  the  last  moment.  I  hope,  when  I 
return,  that  I  will  find  you  happy  and  well,  and  more 
willing  to  listen  to  good  advice  than  you  are  to-night." 

She  made  no  reply,  but  hung  her  head  in  silence. 

"  Good-by,  sister  Kate ! "  said  Hastings,  modestly 
kissing  her,  "  Good-by !  May  God  bless  you ! " 

"  Good-by! "  said  she,"  I  hope  you  will  find  little  Flora." 

Her  last  words  sounded  in  his  ears  all  that  night. 

The  next  day  he  embarked  for  Liverpool.  "Weeks 
passed,  and  he  had  arrived  safely  at  Cork.  The  old 
city  was  the  same  as  when  he  had  visited  it  before. 
There  were  its  limestone  quays,  its  irregular  buildings, 
its  narrow  and  crooked  streets ;  in  short  its  sombre  and 
somewhat  gloomy  self,  spread  out  on  both  sides  of  the 
river  Lee.  Former  associations  crowded  upon  Hast- 
ings' mind  as  he  entered  the  city.  It  was  there  that  he 
had  married  Ida  Linwood,  —  the  mother  of  little  Flora. 
What  a  history,  —  rilled  with  what  strange  events,  had 
he  lived  since  then !  There  was  a  conflict  of  emotions 
awakened  in  his  mind  by  reflections  upon  his  previous 
visit  to  that  city,  and  by  thoughts  of  Mrs.  Belmonte, 
whom  he  had  come  to  see.  I  will  not  pretend  to  de- 


430  THE  CROOKED   ELM  J 

scribe  his  feelings,  —  his  anxiety  of  mind,  —  his  hopes 
and  fears,  as  he  drew  near  the  hotel  where  Mrs.  Bel- 
monte  was  stopping.  I  leave  these  to  the  imagination' 
of  the  reader. 

"  Is  Mrs.  Belmonte  stopping  here  ?  "  inquired  Hastings 
of  the  clerk  of  the  Imperial  Hotel,  when  he  had 
alighted  from  his  carriage.  He  was  deadly  pale,  and 
his  voice  trembled  as  he  spoke.  The  clerk,  thinking 
that  the  person  who  questioned  him  might  be  Mr.  Bel- 
monte, answered :  — 

"  Walk  up  to  the  parlor,  if  you  please,  and  I  will  be 
with  you  in  a  moment." 

Hastings  did  as  requested,  and  soon  the  clerk  re- 
turned, and,  entering  the  room  where  Hastings  was,  in 
company  with  a  gentleman,  said :  "  This  is  Mr.  Worth- 
ington;  he  will  give  you  the  information  you  seek." 
As  he  said  this,  he  retired  from  the  room,  leaving  Mr. 
Worthington  and  Hastings  to  themselves.  Hastings 
rose  from  his  seat  as  Mr.  Worthington  came  in,  and 
asked,  in  a  faltering  voice  :  — 

"  Is  Mrs.  Belmonte  ah' ve  ?  " 

He  read  the  answer  to  his  question  in  Mr.  Worth- 
ington's  countenance,  and  staggering  to  a  seat  he  ex- 
claimed, in  a  voice  of  inexpressible  sorrow,  "She  i? 
dead!  Cornelia  is  dead !!" 

Some  days  had  passed.  Hastings  lay  in  his  bed, 
and  beside  him  stood  Bessy.  He  was  just  recovering 
from  the  insensibility  into  which  the  intelligence  of 
Mrs.  Belmonte's  death  had  thrown  him.  For  more 
than  a  week  his  life  had  been  almost  despaired  of. 
None  had  been  more  faithful  to  him,  more  watchful, 
more  anxious  during  the  critical  period  that  he  lay  sus- 
pended as  it  were  between  life  and  death  —  between  this 
world  and  the  next — between  time  and  eternity;  I 
say  none  had  been  more  faithful  to  him  during  this 


OK,   LIFE   BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  431 

trying  ordeal,  than  Bessy.  She  watched  with  him  day 
and  night  while  he  lay  insensible  to  all  that  was  passing 
around.  When  he  had  so  much  recovered  as  to  be  able 
to  sit  up  in  his  bed,  and  the  physician  had  pronounced 
him  out  of  danger,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Worthington  left  Cork 
for  their  own  home  in  England.  Bessy  only  remained 
to  take  care  of  him.  When  he  had  gained  sufficient 
strength  to  walk  about  the  room,  and  had  become 
somewhat  reconciled  to  Mrs.  Belmonte's  death,  Bessy 
said  to  him :  — 

"  Massa  Hastin's,  Missis  lef '  a  little  box  with  me,  and 
'zired  me  to  take  it  to  you,  in  New  York.  What  I's  a 
thinkin'  ob  am,  whedder  I  orter  to  gib  it  to  you  afore 
you  gets  back  dah." 

"  Run  and  get  it  at  once,"  said  Hastings,  impatiently. 
"  Why  have  you  not  given  it  to  me  before  ?  " 

Bessy  left  to  get  the  box,  muttering  to  herself,  —  "I 
don't  know  whedder  it  am  'zactly  right  —  Missis  did 
not  tell  me  to  gib  it  to  him  here.  I  'specs  I  orter, 
though." 

She  brought  a  rose-wood  box  to  Hastings,  and  then 
left  the  room.  He  unlocked  it,  and  from  a  portfolio 
which  lay  on  the  top  he  took  and  read  the  following 
letter,  after  carefully  removing  the  lock  of  hair  which  it 
contained. 

"  MY  DEAREST  WILLIAM, — I  feel  that  I  have  but  a  few 
days  more  to  live.  I  would  not  give  you  pain  by  writ- 
ing this  conviction,  did  I  not  know,  that,  when  you  shah1 
read  this,  my  spirit  will  have  passed  away  from  earth 
forever.  I  have  no  regrets  at  parting  with  a  world  in 
which  there  is  no  happiness  left  for  me.  Once  I  had 
hope.  Once  I  looked  forward,  and  drew  for  myself 
pictures  of  happiness.  Now  all  these  fair  but  delu- 
sive hopes,  —  these  beautiful  pictures  in  which  fancy 


432  THE  CROOKED   ELM; 

and  the  imagination  had  blended  all  the  delicate  tints 
of  a  life  transparent  with  love  and  sunshine,  —  all,  all, 
have  for  ever  fled !  Oh,  '  that  I  may  be  permitted  to 
see  him  once  more ! '  has  been  my  prayer  for  many  days 
past ;  but  I  never  shall  be  permitted  so  much  happiness. 
I  shall  never  see  you  again.  The  sands  of  my  life  have 
wellnigh  run.  I  have  but  a  few  brief  days  to  live. 
I  cannot  hope  ever  to  hear  your  voice  again,  —  that 
voice  which  has  spoken  words  that  have  ever  thrown 
a  charm  around  my  life.  No,  William,  I  feel  assured 
that  we  will  never  meet  again  in  this  life.  Every  day 
since  we  parted  I  have  thought  of  you,  —  every  night 
have  I  dreamed  of  you.  In  the  sketches  which  Bessy 
will  deliver  to  you,  I  have  conversed  with  you.  All  my 
life,  since  our  last  meeting,  has  been  lived  for  you,  and 
only  you.  I  remember  the  generous  and  loving  Willie 
of  my  happy  girlhood  days.  I  remember  the  pledges 
of  love  which  were  then  made,  and  which  have  been 
by  us  both  so  faithfully  kept.  I  remember  all  the 
cheering,  loving  words  of  him  whose  image  has  been 
to  me  a  star  of  hope  to  guide  me  through  all  the  paths 
of  life.  These  memories  of  happier  days  have  filled 
my  mind  while  living  here  among  strangers.  They 
have  been  my  food  by  day  and  my  sleep  at  night." 

The  letter  filled  several  sheets ;  but  I  will  leave  out 
all  except  what  I  have  here  given  of  its  commence- 
ment, and  the  following  closing  words. 

"  William,  when  I  am  gone,  when  I  am  forgotten 
by  most  who  have  known  me,  you  will  still  think  of 
me,  and  know  that  the  love  I  gave  you  at  our  first 
meeting  will  continue  unbroken  until  I  am  laid  in 
the  grave.  My  body  will  be  placed  in  the  shade  of 
the  trees  near  the  little  church  where  you  were  mar- 
ried. I  have  often  sat  there  and  thought  of  you.  The 
place  is  dear  to  me.  I  welcome  death  as  a  messenger 


OK,   LITE  BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  433 

of  mercy.  The  old  trees,  beneath  whose  shades  I  shall 
sleep  my  last,  long  sleep,  seem  to  invite  me ;  I  must 
bid  you  a  long  good-by  until  we  meet  in  another, 
and,  as  I  trust,  a  better  world.  Good-by,  William! 
a  fond  —  a  loving  —  a  lasting  good-by,  until  the  break- 
ing of  a  brighter  day.  CORNELIA." 

Hastings  sat  for  hours  reading  and  musing  over  this 
last  heart-offering  of  his  idolized  Cornelia.  Through 
it  he  was  holding  converse  with  her  departed  spirit. 
The  sun  had  gone  down  behind  the  western  hills; 
twilight  —  the  hour  for  dreams  and  reverie  —  had 
thrown  its  gauzy  mantle  over  the  city.  Hastings 
still  sat  in  his  room,  silent  and  thoughtful.  The  letter 
remained  open  in  his  hand  —  his  mind  wandered  far 
away  into  "  realms  of  boundless  space."  There  axe 
times  when  the  soul  seems  to  leave  its  prison-house 
of  clay,  and  to  hold  communion  with  spirits  beyond 
the  tomb. 

Bessy  soon  entered  with  a  light,  and  Hastings,  re- 
placing the  lock  of  hair  and  carefully  folding  the  letter, 
put  it  in  his  bosom.  He  then  opened  the  portfolio 
again,  and  the  first  thing  which  drew  his  attention 
was  the  sketch  of  the  little  church  in  which  he  had, 
several  years  before,  been  married.  Underneath  it  were 
the  foUowing  verses  written  by  Mrs.  Belmonte. 

In  thy  cool  shade,  old  trees,  I  oft  have  thought 

Of  childhood's  morn,  when  hope  and  life  were  new  — 

The  many  lessons  that  a  life  has  taught, 

Have  'neath  thy  foliage  been  thought  of  too. 

And  thou,  loved  vine-clad  church  —  how  dear  thou  art  1 
As,  peeping  forth  from  this  beautiful  shade, 
Thou  whisperest  me  of  a  faithful  heart, 
True  to  the  pledge  of  love  in  boyhood  made. 
37 


434  THE   CROOKED   ELM  J 

These  trees,  this  church,  and  all  that  I  hold  dear, 
Like  a  flitting -vision  may  pass  away ; 
But  the  heart  that  proved  true  — •  oh !  may  this  tear 
Seal  it  to  mine  till  a  happier  day. 

A  tear  fell  from  Hastings'  cheek  upon  the  paper 
containing  these  simple,  unpretending  words,  as  he 
finished  reading  them.  The  sentiment  which  they 
embodied  found  a  response  in  his  heart.  "  Yes,"  said 
he,  "this  tear  shall  bind  thee  to  me  until  the  coming 
of  a  happier  day." 

There  were  many  other  sketches  of  scenery  in  the 
immediate  vicinity  of  Cork,  and  also  many  other  scraps 
of  poetry  scattered  through  the  portfolio.  He  examined 
all  the  sketches,  and  read  all  the  poetry,  with  a  lover's 
enthusiasm.  He  remained  until  long  after  midnight 
communing  with  her  who  had  left  him  these  evidences 
of  her  love.  The  box  contained  many  other  little  me- 
mentos, all  of  which  he  carefully  preserved  as  souvenirs 
of  the  past. 

As  soon  -as  he  was  able  he  drove  down  to  the  little 
church  where  Mrs.  Belmonte  was  buried.  He  met  the 
old  sexton,  who  immediately  recognized  him,  although 
he  never  had  seen  Hastings  but  once,  and  that  many 
years  before.  The  old  man  was  rejoiced  to  see  him. 
He  pointed  out  Mrs.  Belmonte's  grave,  and  in  a  voice 
full  of  emotion  said  :  — 

"  This  is  her  grave,  dear  lady !  Long  will  the  poor 
remember  her."  When  he  had  taken  Hastings  to  her 
grave  he  left  him  alone  and  walked  away.  The  spot 
which  she  had  selected  for  her  final  resting-place  was 
close  by  the  seat  where  she  had  so  often  sat.  There 
was  a  quiet  beauty  and  loveliness  in  all  around,  so  con- 
genial to  the  sorrowing  heart.  The  day  was  warm  and 
pleasant ;  Hastings  seated  himself  beside  her  grave,  and 
remained  there  undisturbed  by  any  one  for  several  hours. 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE   WAY-SIDE.  435 

Then   getting  up  he  approached  the  old   sexton,  and 
said :  — 

"  Did  you  ever  converse  with  Mrs.  Belmonte  when  she 
came  here  ?  " 

"  Yes,  your  honor !  She  asked  me  all  about  your 
wedding,  and  she  talked  to  me  of  you  almost  every  day 
as  long  as  she  came  here."  He  showed  Hastings  the 
sketch  which  she  had  given  him,  and  told  him  how  kind 
she  had  been  in  giving  him  money.  Hastings  listened 
attentively  until  the  old  man  had  told  him  much  of  the 
conversations  which  he  had  with  Mrs.  Belmonte  when 
she  had  come  there  to  sketch  different  scenery.  He 
then  asked  the  old  man  where  he  lived. 

"  Just  on  the  hill  yonder,  in  that  cottage." 

"  Have  you  a  family  ?  "  inquired  Hastings. 

"  I  have  a  wife  and  four  children,"  answered  he. 

"  You  are  very  poor,  are  you  not  ?  "  said  Hastings. 

"  God  knows  I  am." 

"  You  are  getting  old.  Will  you  accept  this  as  a  loan 
until  you  are  able  to  repay  it  ? "  As  he  said  this  he 
placed  a  well-filled  purse  of  gold  in  the  old  sexton's 
hand. 

."  God  bless  your  honor !  and  may  the  Lord  presarve 
you ! "  said  the  old  man,  as  he  uncovered  his  head  and 
bow;ed  low  to  Hastings. 

The  next  day  Hastings  had  a  beautiful  monument  of 
white  marble  placed  at  the  head  of  Mrs.  Belmonte's 
grave,  on  which  was  inscribed,  in  deep  letters,  the  name 
"  COKNELIA."  He  also  had  the  grave  beautifully  em- 
paled, and  then,  taking  leave  of  the  old  sexton  in  the 
following  words,  he  left  the  little  church  and  the  grave 
of  his  Cornelia  perhaps  forever.  "  I  shall  not  see  you 
again  soon,  Mr.  Sexton,  but  I  shall  feel  myself  fully  re- 
paid for  the  money  I  loaned  you,  if  in  my  absence  you 


436  THE   CROOKED   ELM. 

take  charge  of  Mrs.  Belmonte's  grave,  and  see  that  it  is 
never  disturbed." 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  how  thankful  I  am  for  your  kind- 
ness," replied  the  old  man,  with  the  tears  coursing  down 
his  furrowed  cheeks,  "  but  I  should  have  done  what  you 
ask  without  pay.  I  love  her  for  her  own  sake,  dear 
lady  !  She  was  one  of  a  thousand !  The  blessings  of 
the  poor  followed  her  to  the  grave.  You  should  have 
seen  them  on  the  day  she  was  buried.  There  was  not 
a  dry  eye  among  them  all.  No  one  will  disturb  her 
resting-place ;  but  it  will  be  faithfully  guarded  by  many 
loving  hearts." 

Hastings,  unable  to  conceal  his  emotions  at  parting 
from  a  place  so  endeared  to  him,  bade  the  old  sexton 
good-by,  and  walked  away.  The  old  man  stood  with 
his  hat  in  his  hand  until  Hastings  was  out  of  sight,  and 
then,  going  to  the  grave  of  Mrs.  Belmonte,  he  gave  vent 
to  his  feelings  in  a  flood  of  tears. 


CHAPTER    XXXIII. 


MANY  months  had  passed  since  Mrs.  Belmonte's 
death.  Hastings  had  returned  to  New  York.  He  con- 
tinued to  visit  old  Mr.  Rivington,  and  to  add  as  much 
as  possible  to  his  comfort  and  happiness.  The  old  man 
still  lived  as  he  had  been  accustomed  to  before  Bel- 
monte's attempt  upon  his  life.  He  worked  in  his  gar- 
den, and  almost  every  day  walked  across  the  field  to  the 
graves  on  the  little  hillock.  Nothing  had  been  heard  of 
Moulton  .or  Flora,  although  Hastings  had  been  unre- 
mitting in  his  efforts  to  find  them.  A  rumor  was  in 
circulation  that  Belmonte  had  been  killed,  while  en- 
gaged in  a  questionable  enterprise  in  the  West  Indies. 
There  was  nothing  reliable,  however,  in  the  reports.  No 
one  could  trace  the  rumor  to  its  source.  Hastings,  after 
his.,  return  from  Cork,  called  as  frequently  as  ever  on 
Kate  Coleman.  He  had  made  her  his  confidante  in 
almost  every  thing.  She  had  received  several  anony- 
mous letters,  trying  to  prejudice  her  against  him,  but 
she  burned  them  without  showing  them  to  any  one. 
She  never  even  told  Hastings  that  such  letters  had  been 
sent  to  her.  Nothing  could  weaken  her  confidence  in 
him.  Nothing  could  make  her  love  him  less. 

Summer  had  come  again.  Mrs.  Coleman,  her  two 
daughters,  and  some  of  their  friends,  together  with 

37*  U3T) 


438  THE  CROOKED   ELM; 

Hastings,  had  gone  to  Niagara  Falls.  It  was  a  warm 
and  beautiful  evening.  Kate  Coleman  and  Hastings 
were  sitting  together  on  the  veranda  of  the  Clifton 
House  looking  out  on  the  falling  waters.  The  moon 
was  at  its  full,  and  as  it  rose  from  the  horizon  it  shed 
a  soft,  lustrous  light  on  the  white  foam  and  spray,  and 
imparted  to  them  a  kaleidoscopic  coloring  and  beauty, 
at  once  fairy-like  and  enchanting.  The  dull,  heavy 
moan  of  the  tumbling  floods  lulled  the  senses  to  repose, 
and  added  interest  to  the  witching  picture. 

"  I  think,"  said  Hastings,  « that  the  Falls  are  seen  at 
no  time  so  favorably  as  by  moonlight.  The  partial 
darkness  gives  effect  to  the  deep  and  hollow  roar  of  the 
cataract,  and  lends  a  charm  to  this  wild  scenery.  Look 
yonder,"  continued  he,  "at  the  long  line  of  foaming 
water  as  it  comes  dashing  on  over  the  rocks  towards 
the  American  Fall.  Is  it  not  a  beautiful  picture  ?  " 

"  Charming ! "  exclaimed  Kate.  "  How  silvery  bright 
and  picturesque,  as  it  stretches  away  in  the  distance  as 
far  as  the  eye  can  see ! " 

"  I  think,"  said  Hastings,  "  that  each  rock,  each  tree, 
each  church-spire;  in  short,  all  that  we  can  here  see,  look 
more  beautiful  to-night  than  they  have  ever  appeared 
before  when  I  have  seen  them." 

"  We  can  imagine,"  said  Kate,  "  that  those  rocks, 
trees,  church-spires,  and  even  Goat  Island,  as  it  lies  there 
dividing  the  waters,  are  spectres  from  the  other  world 
come  to  witness  the  wonders  and  curiosities  of  this." 

"  But,"  replied  Hastings,  "  it  would  require  the  imag- 
ination of  a  poet  to  draw  pictures  so  fanciful." 

"  The  spirit  of  poetry,"  answered  Kate,  enthusiasti- 
cally, "  would  be  awakened  in  the  dullest  mind  at  be- 
holding a  spectacle  like  this,  lit  up  as  it  is  by  the  *  pale 
glimpses  of  the  moon.' " 


OE,   LIFE   BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  439 

"  If  I  were  to  draw  a  picture  from  my  unproductive 
imagination,"  said  Hastings,  "  I  would  make  this  one  of 
the  scenes  described  by  Milton.  Do  you  see  that  tower 
yonder  near  Goat  Island,  standing  on  the  very  brink  of 
the  precipice  ?  I  would  make  that  gloomy,  spectral  ob- 
ject '  Moloch,  sceptred  king,'  addressing  his  myrmi- 
dons, and  exhorting  them  to  'open  war'  against  this 
power  eternal  which  threatens  his  destruction.  The 
ragged  rocks,  and  these  dark,  shadowy  trees  should  be 
his  auditory,  the  thunders  of  the  cataract  his  voice,  and 
this  dimly  lighted  spectacle,  made  ghostly  by  half  seen 
objects,  and  the  nickering  lights  in  the  village  on  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  river,  should  be  his  and  their  doomed 
abode — their  '  dark,  opprobrious  den  of  shame.'  There 
is  something  awe-inspiring  in  Niagara  Falls  by  moon- 
light ;  and,  though  the  picture  which  I  have  drawn  is 
not  very  poetic,  is  there  not  a  wild  majesty  in  the  one 
which  we  here  see,  equal  almost  in  sublimity  to  those 
drawn  by  the  blind  poet  ?  " 

"  I  declare  !  You  are  quite  poetic  —  nor  is  the  com- 
parison which  you  have  made  inappropriate,"  said  Kate. 
"  But  I  am  less  Miltonic  in  my  imagination  than  you. 
I  have  somewhere  seen  Niagara  River  compared  to 
human  life.  At  first  the  water  moves  smoothly  along, 
unruffled  by  any  opposing  obstacle.  The  current  quick- 
ens as  it  nears  the  cataract,  and  is  broken  and  thrown 
from  side  to  side  by  the  rocks,  until,  dashing  forward  at 
a  fearful  rate,  the  waters  are  hurled  from  the  precipice 
into  the  yawning  abyss  below.  Like  Niagara  River  we 
were  represented  to  glide  smoothly  along  in  our  early 
life.  The  beautiful  woods  and  green  fields  which  line 
this  river  were  life's  allurements  and  promised  pleasures. 
They  were  always  seen  in  the  distance,  but  never  en- 
joyed. As  we  increased  in  years  we  hurried  on  from 
one  promised  enjoyment  to  another,  from  hope  to  dis- 


440  THE   CROOKED   ELMJ 

appointment,  until  life's  current,  which  is  hourly  increas- 
ing in  rapidity  and  strength,  carries  us  irresistibly  on, 
sweeping  by  every  delusive  happiness  until  precipitated 
into  the  unseen  and  the  unknown  future." 

"There  is  truth  in  the  comparison  at  least,"  said 
Hastings.  "  I  am  and  ever  have  been  in  this  current. 
Pleasure  and  happiness  have  lined  the  shore,  but  I  have 
never  known  them." 

"  When  the  banks  of  this  river,"  said  Kate,  "  were 
darkened  by  the  dense  forest,  —  when  the  country  about 
was  peopled  with  the  red  men  alone,  and  when  the 
Falls  were  constituted  a  deity,  I  can  imagine  with  what 
wonder  and  with  what  awe-inspiring  amazement  these 
savages  of  the  forest  must  have  beheld  this  natural 
wonder  for  the  first  time!  Imagine  one  of  these,  on 
such  a  night  as  this,  emerging  from  the  thick  woods, 
and  stepping  out  upon  the  bank  of  the  river  into  full 
view  of  the  Falls !  Who  could  blame  him  for  dropping 
upon  his  knees,  and  imploring  the  benisons  of  this  blind 
deity!" 

"  Your  imagination  is  on  the  wing  to-night,  Kate." 
As  Hastings  said  this,  a  girl,  seemingly  about  ten  or 
twelve  years  old,  stepped  from  a  room  on  to  the  veranda 
near  where  he  and  Kate  were  sitting. 

"  Oh,  Eunice ! "  exclaimed  she,  in  a  sweet,  musical 
voice.  "  Come  here,  quick !  How  beautiful  the  water 
looks !  Hurry,  Eunice ! " 

Immediately  a  girl  about  her  own  age  came  to  her 
side  and  exclaimed,  as  she  placed  her  arm  round  her 
companion's  waist :  "  How  very,  very  beautiful ! "  They 
stood  admiring  the  Falls  for  some  time.  Hastings  and 
Kate  ceased  conversing,  and  listened  to  what  they  said. 
The  two  girls  were  Eunice  Demere're  and  little  Flora. 

"  Did  the  water  look  as  beautiful  as  this  when  you 
saw  it  before  ?  "  inquired  Eunice. 


OK,  LIFE  BY  THE   WAY-SIDE.  441 

"  Oh,  no !  I  never  before  saw  any  thing  so  beautiful 
as  this!" 

Flora  stood  within  a  step  or  two  of  Hastings.  A 
light  from  an  adjoining  room  shone  full  upon  her  and 
revealed  to  him  her  large  blue  eyes  and  her  sweet,  ex- 
pressive countenance.  Her  voice  and  face  interested 
him. 

"  Do  you  like  this  moonlit  scenery  ? "  said  he,  ad- 
dressing Flora. 

She  turned  her  head,  and  modestly  looking  him  in  the 
face  answered :  "  I  think  it  is  very  beautiful,  sir." 

"  But  don't  you  like  to  look  at  the  Falls  better  by 
daylight?" 

Flora  moved  instinctively,  as  it  were,  towards  him 
without  fear  or  embarrassment. 

"  I  think,"  said  she,  "that  I  like  them  better  by  moon- 
light" 

Hastings  put  his  arm  round  her  waist,  and  gently 
drew  her  close  up  to  him. 

"  Have  you  seen  Niagara  Falls  before  ?  "  inquired  he. 
.  "  Yes,  sir,  I  saw  them  once  before." 

Kate  Coleman  engaged  Eunice  in  conversation. 
Flora  stood  leaning  against  Hastings,  and  continued 
talking  familiarly  with  him  for  nearly  an  hour.  A 
gentleman  then  came  to  where  they  were,  and,  addressing 
Flora  and  Eunice  in  French,  told  them  that  they  had 
better  retire.  Flora  turned  her  eyes  again  into  Hast- 
ings' face  and  said,  in  a  soft,  sweet  voice :  — 

"  I  must  retire  now.     Good -night,  sir  ! " 

"  Good-night ! "  said  Hastings.  "  I  wish  you  many 
pleasant  dreams." 

"  Thank  you,  sir ! "  said  she,  and  then  turning  she 
walked  away  with  M.  Demere're  and  Eunice ;  for  it 
was  Eunice's  father  who  had  addressed  them. 


442  TEE   CROOKED   ELM  ; 

"  What  sweet  girls ! "  said  Kate,  when  they  had  gone. 

"  I  think  I  have  seen  those  large  blue  eyes  before," 
said  Hastings,  half  abstractedly.  "  Her  voice  is  familiar 
too  —  and  so  musical !  I  could  have  talked  with  her  all 
night  Did  you  observe  her  sweet  countenance,  Kate  ?  " 

"  She  was  very  beautiful.  How  unaffected  and 
simple  in  her  manners  she  was  too !  She  talked  to  you 
as  familiarly  as  though  she  had  known  you  for  years." 

"  I  am  sure  I  have  seen  her  before,"  said  he.  "  She 
must  be  from  New  York.  Perhaps  she  knows  me.  1 
will  see  and  talk  more  with  her  to-morrow." 

The  next  morning,  as  Hastings  was  walking  early  on 
the  veranda,  he  saw  a  carriage  drive  away  from  the  door 
of  the  Clifton  House.  A  girl  looked  at  him  from  the 
carriage  window  —  his  eyes  met  hers — she  bowed  to 
him  as  the  carriage  passed  and  smiling  sweetly  threw  a 
little  bouquet  of  choice  flowers  towards  him.  He  kissed 
his  hand  to  her,  and  then  descending  the  steps  quickly 
picked  the  bouquet  from  the  ground  and  held  it  up  so 
that  she  could  see  that  he  had  got  it.  She  remained 
looking  out  of  the  window  until  she  could  see  Hastings 
no  linger,  and  he  continued  looking  at  her  until  the 
carriage  was  out  of  sight.  "  How  strange ! "  muttered  he. 
"She  must  know  me!"  He  told  Kate  the  incident 
when  he  met  her  that  morning,  and  she  exclaimed, 
laughing :  — 

"  How  romantic !  The  liking  is  mutual !  I  am  sorry 
she  has  gone !  I  should  like  to  know  more  of  her." 

"  So  should  I,"  said  Hastings. 

«  I  do  not  think  they  are  sisters,"  said  Kate.  "  They 
do  not  look  alike.  They  are  direct  opposites,  except 
that  they  are  both  sweet  and  lovely  in  their  manners, 
looks,  and  conversation." 

"  I  must  go  to  the  office  and  see  who  they  are,"  said 


OR,   LIFE   BY   THE    WAY-SIDE.  443 

he.  "  I  will  lay  you  a  wager,  Kate,  that  they  are  from 
New  York,  and  that  the  little  blue-eyed  beauty  knows 
me?" 

«  What  shall  the  wager  be  ?  "  inquired  Kate. 

u  Any  thing  you  please.  A  drive  to  the  burning 
spring,  to  the  observatory,  or  where  you  like." 

"  You  have  the  advantage  in  the  bet,"  said  she,  "  but 
I  will  accept  it." 

Hastings  went  to  the  office,  and  soon  returning  said : — 

"  I  have  lost  as  usual.  They  are  M.  Demerere  and 
his  two  daughters  from  Quebec.  At  least,  the  names 
are  entered  so  as  to  indicate  that  they  are  his  daughters. 
The  entry  reads  M.  and  Mme.  Demerere,  two  Misses, 
and  servant."  , 

"I  should  never  have  taken  them  for  sisters,"  said 
Kate.  "  Did  you  observe  with  what  a  delicate  and 
sweet  accent  they  spoke  French  to  their  father  ?  " 

"  I  did  remark  it,"  said  he.  "  Perhaps  they  are 
French." 

"  We  may  meet  them,"  said  Kate,  "at  Quebec.  I 
wish  we  may.  It  would  be  pleasant  to  know  a  family 
so  accomplished  and  interesting." 

"  But  where  shall  we  drive  to-day  ?  "  asked  Hastings. 
"  I  must  pay  my  losses.  I  dislike  remaining  in  your 
debj;  more  than  is  necessary." 

"  I  will  go  and  see  Clemie,"  said  Kate.  "  She  may 
not  wish  to  drive  to-day.  Yesterday  she  was  teasing 
mamma  to  let  her  go  under  the  4  great  sheet  of  water,'  as 
it  is  called  in  the  guide-books ;  but  I  persuaded  mamma 
not  to  let  her  do  so  foolish  a  thing.  There  is  no  know- 
ing what  she  will  be  up  to  next.  Perhaps  she  will  be 
wishing  to  navigate  the  river  in  an  Indian  canoe,  or  to 
descend  the  rope  ladder  which  leads  into  the  «  Cave  of 
the  Winds.'  It  would  not  be  unlike  her  to  wish  some- 
thing of  the  kind.  I  will  go  and  see  her." 


444  THE   CKOOKED   ELM  ; 

Mrs.  Coleman  and  her  party  remained  at  Niagara 
Falls  a  week  or  more,  and  then  left  for  Montreal.  On 
their  arrival  at  the  latter  place,  Hastings  was  agreeably 
surprised  to  meet  his  old  friends  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Colling- 
wood,  together  with  Harry  Collingwood  and  Charley 
Willington.  He  introduced  them  to  Mrs.  Coleman  and 
her  two  daughters,  as  well  as  to  the  others  of  her  party, 
and  they  all  in  a  few  days  proceeded  on  to  Quebec. 
They  had  been  at  Quebec  about  a  fortnight.  They 
were  intending  to  leave  the  next  day.  The  weather  was 
delightfully  warm  and  pleasant,  and  Hastings  proposed 
that  they  should  again  visit  Montmorency  Falls  before 
leaving  the  city.  The  proposition  was  favorably  received, 
and  the  party  was  soon  without  the  gates  ot  the  city, 
driving  towards  the  Falls,  — which  are  distant  from  Que- 
bec about  seven  or  eight  miles.  They  passed  through 
the  little  French  village  mentioned  in  a  previous  chap- 
ter. Harry  and  Charley  had  purposely  filled  their  pock- 
ets with  change,  so  as  to  have  some  fun  with  the  young 
villagers  ;  for  when  they  had  passed  through  before  they 
were  sadly  in  want  of  ready  funds  to  meet  the  demands 
of  the  market.  There  were  as  many  as  twenty  or  thirty 
children  who  gathered  about  the  carriage  in  which 
Harry  and  Charley  were,  and  followed  close  to  it  to 
pick  up  the  pennies  which  were  occasionally  thrown  to 
them.  Whenever  a  piece  of  money  fell  among  them 
there  would  be  a  general  scrambling  to  see  who  should 
get  it,  much  to  the  entertainment  of  Mr.  Babblington's 
hopeful  pupils.  When  they  arrived  at  the  Falls,  they 
found  several  carriages  there.  The  day  was  so  mild 
and  pleasant  that  many  of  the  citizens  of  Quebec  had 
gone  there  to  enjoy  the  drive.  The  party,  which  was 
now  quite  numerous,  was  mirthful  and  joyous.  As  they 
walked  from  the  road  down  towards  the  Falls  through 
the  thick  wood  which  lines  the  bank  of  the  stream, 


OK,  LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  445 

Charley,  Harry,  Clemie,  and  sofne  others  of  the  party 
made  the  air  vocal  with  their  happy  and  gleeful  laugh- 
ter. 

"  Charley,  run  here,  quick ! "  cried  Harry,  enthusiasti- 
cally. 

Charley  hastened  to  him ;  for  he.  expected,  by  the 
tone  of  surprise  in  which  Harry  spoke,  that  there  was 
something  wonderful  to  be  seen.  Clemie  and  several 
others  also  ran  to  where  Harry  stood  peering  with 
seeming  astonishment  into  vacancy. 

"  Do  you  see  that  large  sheet  of  falling  water  yonder, 
Charley?" 

"  No,"  answered  Charley,  looking  intently  in  the 
direction  which  Harry  pointed  out. 

"  No  more  do  I ! "  exclaimed  Harry,  as  he  turned  and 
ran  laughing  away.  They  all  laughed  heartily  at 
Charley's  expense,  and  followed  joyously  on  in  the 
direction  where  they  heard  the  roar  of  falling  water. 
They  soon  reached  the  bank  on  the  edge  of  the  cat- 
aract. 

"  How  wild  and  romantic ! "  exclaimed  Clemie.  "  I 
like  this  much  better  than  Niagara ! " 

"  Why,  Clemie,  you  are  more  poetic  than  I  had  sup- 
posed," said  Hastings,  teasingly.  "  I  had  always  asso- 
ciate4  you  with  simple  prose.  I  find,  however,  that  I 
have  been  egregiously  at  fault." 

"  You  are  generally  at  fault,"  said  Clemie,  tartly. 

"  Clemie !  "  said  Kate,  reprovingly. 

Clemie  made  no  answer,  but  walked  a  little  to  one 
side,  and,  seating  herself  on  a  broken  rock,  contemplated 
in  silence  the  picturesque  beauty  of  this  wild  and 
charming  waterfall.  They  all  at  length  crossed  to  the 
other  side  of  the  stream,  and  were  descending  the  high 
bank  to  the  water  at  the  foot  of  the  falls.  Harry,  anx- 
38 


446  THE  CROOKED  ELM; 

ious  to  show  his  dexterity,  was  leading  them.  They 
had  not  descended  far,  when  he,  leaving  the  path,  thought 
he  would  reach  the  bottom  in  a  shorter  way.  His  feet 
tripped,  however,  and  threw  him  on  to  the  slaty  rock, 
which  was  so  steep  and  slippery  that  he  could  not 
obtain  footing.  Hastings,  who  was  near  him,  tried  to 
rescue  him,  but  could  not.  Harry  caught  at  first  to 
some  loose  stones,  but  they  gave  way,  and  he  slid  and 
rolled  to  the  water's  edge,  a  distance  of  nearly  two 
hundred  feet.  His  father,  Hastings,  and  in  fact  all  of 
the  party,  hurried  down  the  steep  path  to  see  what  had 
become  of  him.  When  they  had  gone  a  little  further 
down,  they  saw  a  man  carry  him  up  the  bank,  and  lay 
him  down  on  the  grass  near  to  where  two  young  girls 
were  standing.  Mr.  Collingwood  and  Hastings  were 
soon  by  Harry's  side,  trying  to  restore  him  to  conscious- 
ness. The  remainder  of  the  party  soon  came  up,  and 
formed  a  circle  about  him.  Mrs.  Collingwood  was  so 
much  frightened,  when  she  saw  her  son  lying  there  insen- 
sible, that  she  fainted.  The  two  girls,  who  had  been 
standing  a  little  distance  away,  watching  anxiously  all 
that  was  going  on,  approached  near  to  where  Harry  lay. 
One  of  them  gazed  intently  into  his  face.  All  was 
excitement,  —  all  were  anxious  to  do  something  for 
Harry.  She,  however,  stood  as  if  spellbound,  with  her 
eyes  riveted  upon  Harry's  countenance.  Consciousness 
was  soon  restored,  and  Harry,  raising  his  head,  turned 
his  eyes  in  the  direction  where  she  was  standing.  She 
rushed  forward  and  fell  upon  her  knees  by  his  side,  ex- 
claiming wildly,  "It  is  Harry!  it  is  Harry!"  And, 
seeming  to  forget  that  there  were  any  others  present, 
she  took  his  hand  and  said  in  a  voice  full  of  emotion, 
"  I  am  Flora !  Don't  you  know  me,  Harry  ?  "  Harry 
raised  himself  up,  and,  with  a  pale  countenance  and 


OR,  LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  447 

with  eyes  staring  at  her  as  if  unable  to  credit  his  own 
senses,  exclaimed,  in  a  feeble  voice :  "  Flora !  Is  it  you, 
Flora  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Harry,  I  am  Flora ! "  and  the  two  were  in 
each  other's  arms.  While  this  scene  was  being  enacted 
by  Harry  and  Flora,  Hastings,  astonished  and  trembling 
with  the  conviction  which  flashed  upon  his  mind,  rose 
to  his  feet  from  where  he  had  been  kneeling  beside 
Harry,  and  cast  his  eyes  around  him.  They  met  those 
of  Moulton,  for  it  was  he  who  had  picked  Harry  from 
the  sand.  A  moment,  and  only  a  moment  did  they 
look  at  each  other,  when  Hastings,  clasping  Flora  to 
his  bosom,  cried  out,  in  the  fulness  of  his  joy :  — 
"  My  child !  —  my  child !  —  I  have  found  my  child ! " 
Flora  looked  at  him  and  then  at  Harry.  Her  coun- 
tenance was  full  of  bewilderment.  Tears  coursed  down 
Hastings'  face  and  fell  upon  her  head  as  he  leaned  over 
her  and  pressed  her  to  him.  All  stood  in  utter  amaze- 
ment. They  were  struck  dumb  at  what  to  them  was  so 
unaccountably  strange,  and  they  remained  gazing  at  the 
actors  in  the  scene  without  the  power  of  speech.  Mr. 
Collingwood  rose  from  where  he  had  been  kneeling  by 
Harry,  and  fixed  his  eyes  alternately  on  Hastings  and 
Moulton.  Charley  stood  near  Harry,  and  contemplated 
the  whole  spectacle  with  eyes  big  with  wonder.  Eunice 
Demerge,  terrified  by  this  unexpected  and  strange 
scene,  had  stepped  a  little  further  away,  and  with  her 
head  bent  forward,  and  with  her  hands  raised  in  fright, 
stood  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  Flora.  Kate  Coleman, 
who  knew  more  of  what  was  passing  than  any  of  the 
other  spectators,  stood  near  Hastings  weeping  for  joy. 
Her  prayers  were  answered,  —  Hastings  had  found  his 
child.  Moulton,  pale  and  trembling,  remained  standing 
as  if  unable  to  move  for  a  moment,  with  eyes  bursting 


448  THE   CROOKED   ELM; 

almost  from  their  sockets  as  they  gazed  at  Hastings  and 
Flora.  Then,  pressing  his  hand  convulsively  to  his  fore- 
head, as  if  to  repress  some  sudden  and  overpowering 
conviction,  he  turned  his  eyes  wildly  upwards.  Until 
that  moment  he  had  not  known  that  Flora  was  the 
child  of  his  once  fondly  loved  Ida.  The  knowledge 
burst  upon  his  mind  like  a  gleam  of  fight  from  the 
other  world.  In  the  revelation  he  saw  the  spirit  of  Ida. 
It  was  she  who  had  watched  over  to  save  him.  Before 
him  stood  her  child,  and  he  who  had  once  so  deeply 
wronged  him.  His  brain  reeled,  and  he  fell  at  the  feet 
of  her  who  had  saved  him  from  a  life  of  crime,  and, 
without  uttering  a  word,  his  spirit  passed  away  from 
earth  forever. 

Two  or  three  weeks  had  passed  since  Hastings 
found  his  child.  M.  Demerdre,  Eunice,  Harry,  Charley, 
Hastings,  and  Flora  were  the  guests  of  Mrs.  Cole- 
man  at  her  house  in  New  York.  Harry  in  his  fall  had 
received  several  severe  injuries,  and  had  only  recovered 
from  them  sufficiently  to  walk  about  the  house.  His 
father  and  mother  had  returned  to  Virginia,  leaving 
him  in  the  care  of  Hastings.  Flora  had  regained  some- 
what her  cheerful  spirits  •;  and  she  and  Harry,  as  in 
years  past,  had  stole  away  from  the  others  in  the  house, 
and  were  seated  together  on  the  back  piazza.  They 
each  told  to  the  other  their  individual  histories  since 
they  had  been  separated. 

"  I  never  have  ceased  thinking  of  you,  Harry,"  said 
Flora.  "  I  have  always  thought  that  we  would  meet 
some  time." 

"  Rose  and  I  often  talked  of  you,"  said  Harry.  "  She 
always  said  that  I  would  meet  you  again." 

They  remained  a  long  time  talking  together.  Hast- 
ings sat  by  a  window  where  he  could  hear  much  of 


OR,  LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  449 

their  conversation.  "  God  bless  you  both ! "  said  he  to 
himself.  "  Your  innocent  and  pure  love  shall  never  be 
disturbed  by  me." 

They  renewed  their  pledges  of  love,  and  resolved 
never  to  be  separated  again,  without  writing  to  each 
other.  I  will  not  attempt  a  description  of  Hastings'  joy 
at  finding  his  long-lost  child.  Flora  and  he  clung 
naturally  and  fondly  to  each  other.  She  already  loved 
him  more  than  she  had  ever  loved  any  one  else.  They 
were  together  much,  and  he  told  her  much  of  the  his- 
tory of  her  mother,  and  as  far  as  possible  revealed  to 
her  young  mind  the  many  strange  events  connected 
with  her  childhood.  They  remembered  their  strange 
meeting  at  Niagara  Falls,  and  the  incidents  connected 
with  it  were  often  alluded  to  by  them  both. 

A  few  days  after  Hastings  had  returned  to  the  city, 
he  visited  old  Mr.  Rivington  and  gradually  told  him  of 
the  deception  which  Belmonte  had  practised  upon  him, 
and  informed  him  that  Flora  was  still  alive.  The  old 
man  was  wild  with  joy  on  learning  that  she  was  still 
living.  He  was  for  going  at  once  to  the  city  to  see 
her. 

"  I  will  bring  her  here  to-morrow  afternoon,"  said 
Hastings.  "  In  the  mean  time  the  grave  of  the  child, 
buried  beside  Rover,  had  better  be  removed.  I  fear 
that  the  effect  of  it  would  be  injurious  to  her." 

Mr.  Rivington  consented  to  the  arrangement,  and  thai 
afternoon  removed  the  remains  of  the  child  to  anothei 
spot,  and  had  the  fresh  earth  carefully  sodded  over,  so  as 
to  leave  no  traces  of  what  had  been  done.  The  next 
day,  Hastings,  alone  with  Flora,  drove  to  old  Mr.  Riv- 
ington's.  When  the  carriage  stopped  at  the  gate  in 
front  of  his  house,  the  old  man,  with  his  head  uncovered 
and  with  his  white  locks  falling  carelessly  over  his  face 


450  THE  CROOKED  ELM, 

and  neck,  hurried  out  to  meet  his  once  adopted  child. 
They  were  soon  in  each  other's  arms.  The  old  man 
wept  like  a  child. 

"  May  the  Lord  be  praised  for  restoring  you  to  me 
again ! "  said  he,  as  he  pressed  her  to  his  bosom.  Flora 
could  not  speak  a  word,  but  looked  tearfully  at  the  old 
man,  as  if  trying  to  recall  him  to  her  mind.  He  picked 
her  up  in  his  arms,  as  he  had  been  accustomed  to  when 
she  lived  with  him,  although  she  was  now  quite  a  large 
girl,  and  walked  towards  the  house,  pressing  her  to  him 
and  exclaiming :  "  Praise  the  Lord !  Praise  the  Lord ! 
She  was  dead  and  is  alive  again ;  and  was  lost  and  is 
found !  Praise  the  Lord  for  his  goodness  in  restoring  to 
me  my  darling  child ! " 

It  was  a  long  time  before  he  could  compose  himself 
sufficiently  to  talk  to  her.  He  seated  her  on  his  knee  as 
he  had  often  done  years  before,  and  looked  into  her 
face  with  a  countenance  beaming  with  gratitude  and 
joy.  After  remaining  for  an  hour  or  more  in  the  house, 
the  three  started  across  the  field  to  see  her  old  friend 
Rover's  grave.  What  emotions  were  awakened  in  her 
young  heart  at  beholding  again  the  familiar  objects  of 
her  childhood!  The  house,  the  fields,  and  wood  and 
river,  all  were  there  before  her ;  but  how  diminished  in 
size!  Her  grandpapa,  as  she  still  called  Mr.  Rivington, 
looked  natural  to  her,  yet  she  gazed  at  him  as  if  trying 
to  recall  him  more  forcibly  to  memory.  When  they 
arrived  at  the  little  hillock,  Flora  looked  anxiously  about 
her.  Her  heart  was  full  to  overflowing  —  fond  and 
cherished  memories  crowded  upon  her  mind.  She 
looked  anxiously  at  Rover's  grave,  her  little  play-house, 
the  forget-me-nots  which  she  had  planted,  and  at  all 
which  recalled  the  past.  She  could  contain  her  feelings 
no  longer — they  found  vent  in  tears.  The  old  man 


OR,   LIFE  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  451 

and  Hastings  stood  by  her  side.  Each  was  'filled  with 
his  own  thoughts.  Each  was  rejoicing  over  the  safe 
return  of  the  lost  one. 

Flora  and  Eunice  remained  at  Mrs.  Coleman's  for 
nearly  two  months.  M.  Demere're  had  left  Eunice  with 
Flora,  having  been  earnestly  solicited  to  do  so  by  Hast- 
ings. They  were  happy  when  together.  Kate  Cole- 
man  thought  that  Flora  was  the  sweetest  girl  she  had 
ever  known.  She  tried  in  every  way  to  add  to  her  hap- 
piness. Flora  and  she  were,  very  soon,  great  friends. 

One  evening,  as  Kate  and  Hastings  were  seated 
together  on  the  piazza,  Hastings,  taking  Kate's  hand  in 
his,  said :  — 

"  Kate,  you  have  been  a  very  kind  and  good  sister  to 
me.  We  have  known  each  other  a  long  time.  I  had 
resolved  never  to  marry  again ;  but  T  now  leave  it  to  you 
to  say  whether  I  shall  break  or  keep  the  resolution. 
Can  you  love  me  other  than  as  a  brother  ?  Will  you 
become  my  wife  ?  " 

As  he  said  this,  he  rose  from  his  seat,  pressed  her 
hand  gently,  and  bid  her  good-night,  —  leaving  Kate 
with  cheeks  suffused  with  blushes.  The  words  which 
he  had  spoken  gave  her  more  happiness  than  any  which 
she  had  ever  before  listened  to.  Her  cup  of  joy  was  full 
to  overflowing. 

Several  years  have  rolled  away.  Hastings  and  Kate 
and  Flora  are  living  in  a  beautiful  house  in  New  York. 
Bessy  is  there,  too,  all  smiles,  and  with  a  face  beaming 
with  pleasure  as  she  plays  with  a  little  bright-eyed  boy 
and  curly-headed  girl,  who  have  already  learned  to  call 
Kate  and  Hastings,  mamma  and  papa.  Flora  has 
grown  to  be  a  handsome  and  accomplished  young  lady. 
Eunice  Demere're  visits  her  frequently,  and  they  often 
talk  over  the  many  incidents  of  their  lives,  and  their 
future  prospects.  Harry  has  completed  his  collegiate 


452  THE   CKOOKED   ELM. 

studies,  and  is  reading  law  with  Hastings.  Rumors  are 
afloat  —  rumors  that  may  be  relied  on  as  true  —  that  he 
and  the  accomplished  Miss  Hastings  are  soon  to  be 
married.  It  is  even  stated  that  the  day  for  their  wed- 
ding has  been  named,  and  that  a  certain  clergyman  by 
the  name  of  Babblington,  from  the  northern  part  of  the 
State  of  New  York,  has  been  invited  to  officiate  on  the 
occasion.  The  farm  where  Moulton  lived  in  Virginia 
has  been  purchased  by  Mr.  Collingwood,  and  the  house 
has  been  beautifully  fitted  up.  Aunt  Rose  superin- 
tended the  repairing  and  arranging  the  kitchen ;  and  it 
is  a  fact  worthy  of  mention,  that  she  looked  more  smil- 
ingly while  doing  so  than  she  had  for  years  before.  It 
is  whispered  also  that  old  Mr.  Rivington  intends  living 
with  Harry  and  Flora  when  they  commence  "  keeping 
house." 

Charley  Willington  is  a  frequent  visitor  at  M.  Deme- 
re"re's,  and  it  is  more  than  probable  that  he  and  Eunice 
will  follow  the  commendable  example  which  Flora  and 
Harry  intend  setting  them. 

George  Washington  Jackson  Smith,  (now  an  assist- 
ant editor  of  a  very  popular  magazine,)  and  Richard 
Evans,  a  young  physician,  are  expected  to  be  present  at 
Harry's  wedding  to  give  eclat  to  the  occasion,  as  well 
as  to  show  their  respect  for  old  Mr.  Babblington  and 
the  "  Guttural  System." 

Wishing  Flora  and  Harry,  and  Eunice  and  Charley, 
all  kinds  of  happiness  in  their,  at  present,  flattering  and 
joyous  prospects,  I  bid  them,  together  with  the  other 
characters  in  this  story,  and  the  reader,  an  affectionate 
adieu. 


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